During winter break, I had the rare opportunity to witness an event in Nicholls, Iowa, that will forever change my life. Nicholls, a thriving berg of 46 people (47 if you count “Big Earl” Spencer twice, as most do), wasn’t home to much.

Aside from the annual tractor pull and some nifty stories about livestock and crop circles, Nicholls was a pretty boring place. At least until Dec. 22, 1997 — the day this small Iowa farm town was added to the map.

Somehow, Myrtle Portlodge, owner of Ye Olde Craft Hut in downtown Nicholls, had managed to get her grubby mitts on a half-dozen of the limited-edition Princess Di Bear Beanie Babies and decided to hold a lottery. The six lucky contestants whose names were drawn would be given the opportunity to buy the dolls at a highly inflated price. It was the biggest event in Nicholls’ history (besides perhaps “Big Earl”).

Needless to say, hundreds of middle-aged women from across the nation were on hand. I was one of them. A friend of mine duped me into attending with the promise of fresh, roasted dingo — all so that she would have an extra shot at winning. Perhaps this seems a little crooked to you. Well, it is. Cheating, stealing and general mayhem always run rampant at such events. During this one afternoon, I witnessed all varieties of trickery and bedlam. One crafty fellow tried in vain to auction off a crude imitation of the purple bear.

Another couple attempted to arrange a trade for their 6-year-old son. I even watched as somebody’s grandmother tried to make off with one of the dolls on display, only to be chased away by the cruel management, who appeared to be prejudiced against shoplifters.

For those of you unfamiliar with this latest craze, allow me to explain. Beanie Babies, much like their predecessors, the lovable Cabbage Patch Kids, prove conclusively the central law of supply and demand — “People, in general, are not very smart.”

“But what are these Beanie Babies?” you ask. Simply put, a Beanie Baby is a pile of beans covered with a soft animal shell. They’re kind of like other stuffed animals in that they’re stuffed and they resemble animals, but different in that they cost as much as a decent used car. What sets them apart is a little red label that says “Ty” and tells you some vital information about the animal, like name and miles-per-gallon.

I spoke with some collectors at the Craft Hut about what these Beanies are good for, which, it turns out, is pretty much nothing. The phrase “display case” was used as justification for their existence, as was “kindling.” Collecting them seems to be a pretty uninvolved hobby, which may explain why they attract small children, the elderly and rural Iowans. In addition to being worthless, they can get quite costly, but only if you buy them. They aren’t nearly so expensive if you make them yourself from quality fabric and stuffing. Or if you steal them.

My first encounter with these toys came last Christmas when I was asked to buy one for my cousin, Bernice. Because I work for the Daily, I can’t afford lunch, much less Beanie Babies. Instead, I had to settle for a yellow car I stole from the waiting room of Monroe’s Auto Parts. It was a little greasy and was missing some stuffing, but I thought if I could doctor it up with some Magic Markers I might be able to pass if off as Vic the Volvo. The poor child wasn’t fooled.

One interesting thing about Beanie Babies is their diversity. From traditional favorites like Gummy the Slug and Scourge the Vermin, to the newest phenoms, Gary the Gravel and Alloy the Filing Cabinet, it seems that anything Ty, Inc. employees can slap a smiling face on is fair game.

Beanie Babies are even making waves in other nations, where cultural variations are very popular. Beefy the Cow has nearly reached deity status in some Far Eastern countries, and his nemesis, Steve the Sirloin, has recently been outlawed (sparking protests here on campus). American collectors are having a great time trying to track down popular foreign Beanies, like Ted the Taco and Choiria the Hairy French Woman.

Unfortunately, no French woman, hairy or otherwise, was going to satisfy the wild Nicholls crowd. Everyone was after the coveted purple bear, and murmurs of foul play were in the air. Children were crying, women were complaining and threats were being tossed around like candy at a carnival. Ye Olde Craft Hut was a virtual powder keg, ready to explode at any moment.

Well, to make a long story short, my friend was one of the six lucky winners, much to the chagrin of Nicholls’ various riffraff. She quickly forked over the $600 (or whatever outrageous price they were asking), and we made our escape just as the shop began to explode into mob violence.

Although many people are critical of Beanie Babies for one reason or another, I’m not so quick to judge. Sure, they create scenes of anarchy like the one I saw in Nicholls. Sure, they drive some middle-aged women to insanity and others to prison. Sure, they’re probably used by the government to oppress women and minorities.

But isn’t it worth it to see a smile on the face of a precious, innocent, little 49-year-old woman?

Ron DeMarse is sophomore in liberal studies. Chris Jones is a sophomore in accounting.