Editor’s note: The following is a continuing journal of a fictional college student. It is intended to be a humorous and enjoyable feature about an average Joe. Though written by Iowa State’s own Scott Jacobson, a Daily staff writer, people, places and events detailed below are not analogous to a real student.

March 12, 1999

So there I was, packing my little duffel bag with the eight pairs of boxers, eight pairs of socks, three T-shirts and two flannels that I would need for this next week when Melissa dragged her three suitcases out of the bedroom and asked if I could load them into the Cherokee.

And thus it began.

Now, I know and she knows that she’s not going to wear a single thing in at least two of those mammoth chunks of luggage, but she swears that she has to bring every piece of clothing she owns because she never knows what’s going to come up.

I tried to help her out by reminding her of their daily schedule two years ago.

First, I established the facts.

One, we’re in a million-dollar summer home. Just us. Three guys and three girls. No help. No neighbors. Just us. And we’ve all already seen her at her worst.

Two, there’s a swimming pool that could make a decent bid to become the next Great Lake and a hot tub outside. You don’t need to pack much clothing for a pool or a hot tub. Or any, for that matter.

Three, we’re taking along enough beer, cereal, bread and sandwich meat to last us until Christmas. With that in our pantry, we’ll never have to leave the house. Oh, that reminds me, I’ve gotta stop and grab some cheese.

I like cheese.

So, back to the girls’ daily regiment. If it’s anything like the last time we were at this place, it’s easy to guess what they’ll do.

They’ll wake up. They’ll lay around talking about what they should do that day. They’ll be lounging by the pool by 11 where they won’t move except to grab a couple sandwiches until 8 p.m. And then they’ll sit around drinking foofoo drinks and watching “Dirty Dancing” and “Grease 2” until they pass out on the couches.

The next day? Go back to step one and repeat.

You don’t need three portable closets to achieve those goals, damnit.

Then there’s me.

I was going to take a suitcase, but then I found this cute, little duffel bag from junior high gym class. It’s smaller, more flexible, and it’s got a mesh pouch on the end for when my swim trunks get wet. Now that’s genius.

Looking back on our past experiences, I’ll venture a guess as to what the three guys will do during their days in Phoenix.

Day one, we’ll wake up, make a Bloody Mary — damn, I’ve gotta remember to get Tabasco and pepper — and then we’ll sit around making fun of the girls. Around noon, we’ll drag the cooler back out by the hot tub, strip down to our boxers because we’re too lazy to go all the way back upstairs to get our trunks, and then sit around in the hot tub for six or seven hours. Making fun of the girls.

That night, we’ll wax philosophical for a few hours as we eat microwaved chicken and cheese, and we’ll fall asleep to “Silk Stalkings” or “USA Up All Night.”

The next day, we’ll be bored with where we’re at and we’ll want to take the Cherokee on a road trip, just to get away from femalia.

Two years ago, we went to the Phoenix Zoo and watched the monkeys.

There’s something about monkeys that you’ve just gotta love. Maybe it’s the fact that they decide territorial authority by poking each other in the butt with their finger and go from there. Those silly bastards.

Regardless, the girls are going to lay out, and the guys are going to give them a hard time while making up funny names for drinks they create. That’s how the famous cocktail “Four Guys in a Hot Tub” came about.

You mix orange juice, Dr. Pepper, Captain Morgan and Sprite in a Tupperware bowl, then pour it into Dixie cups and toast to the fact that you’ve used up the last of your money. Guess you kinda had to be there.

And I’m sure we’ll have plenty of stories from this trip, too; I just wish that the guys could go their way and the girls could sit around doing their hair only to jump in the pool five minutes later.

It’s not that I’m bitter — I just yearn for the days when boys could be boys and monkeys could be monkeys and it all made sense. Somehow.