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. It runs weekly, on Fridays. 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.

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May 2, 1997

So there I was, sifting through my May basket, hoping for just one more pack of Smarties, when the phone rang to scare the everliving bejeezus out of me.

Unable to check the caller ID before answering due to the collection of candies scattered on my lap, I just grabbed the cordless and answered in my best grown-up voice, “Hellooooo, hi, how you doing??”

The voice on the other end of the line seemed a bit confused when he asked if I was there and since he asked for me by my full name, I knew that it was probably somewhat important.

“Yep, just a second, I’ll go get him.” Hold the phone to my shoulder, count to 10 and run through the alphabet twice in my head, take a deep breath and prepare to be adultish hoping he doesn’t realize I’m the same idiot that just answered the phone.

Oddly enough, I must have pulled off my little charade, because moments later, he offered me a job. I’m talking employment. 40 hours a week, 52 weeks a year for a seven-digit salary. Well, that’s counting the zeros after the decimal point, but hey, pennies need love too.

So after discussing the ins and outs and coffee breaks of the job, he asks me if it’s all right that I’m staying here in Ames, if I have any ties to the area.

Where do I start? Let’s see, I’ve got a tab I need to pay at the bar, I’ve got late charges I’m avoiding at the video store from when Eddie and I decided to have our John Cusack marathon and accidentally lost “Say Anything” and “One Crazy Summer” and decided to keep “Better Off Dead,” and I know every drink special at every bar on any given night.

Also, Monica’s got another semester of school left and I don’t want to have to drive eight or nine hours just to get a little love, but I figured none of these were really valid reasons, so I gave him the one item I could think of that made me look all responsible and stuff — family, gotta love ’em.

So it’s official. I’m here to stay. After spending five years of undergraduate work familiarizing myself with the language, cultures, and traditions of this lovely little village, I can finally do my anthropological studies from a new perspective. That of a grown up.

But first I’ve got some finals to take care of. The first of which was a couple days ago.

So there I was, studying with Eddie Wednesday morning, wondering why we were wasting our time stuffing the particulars of art history into our undersized brains when we both had As in the class and were taking it pass/fail when the clouds parted, light shone through and we had a revelation.

Let’s get snookered.

I had been complaining all month that I was going to graduate without ever taking a final while I was under the evil spell of alcohol, so I decided to stop my whining, take control of my life and do something about it.

We had about two hours before the exam was to start, so we couldn’t mess around. Eddie grabbed his vodka and I with my Jack cracked a carton of lemonade and worked on making a snack.

After about two or three or six cocktails, it was nearing noon and we had to get to our final. Not wanting to get slapped with an OWI before lunch, we decided that we had just one option — drunk bus.

Granted, I’ve only taken the inebriation station wagon once before in my life, but if ever there was a time to have our butts carted across town, this was it.

I hit the number on speed dial that Eddie had programmed in for emergency use only and within seconds, there was a pleasant voice on the other end asking where I was and where I needed to be.

“I’m at home and I need to be in class,” I somehow stammered out in my best no-I’m-not-drunk-while-the-clock-still-says-AM voice and she told me that I had to be more specific. I hate that.

Well, we got it worked out and, crazy as it sounds, they weren’t all that busy on a Wednesday morning so they were able to rush us off to campus so we could test our knowledge in an impaired state.

When the two hours were up, I turned in my mostly legible exam sheet, wiped the drool off the desk from when I passed out during the second set of slides and woke Eddie up since he nodded off somewhere around the Post-Impressionist era.

We went home and fell asleep for a few hours before hitting mug night and realized that it’s a far better thing to be hungover twice in one day than to never be drunk at all.

We’re just glad we got some practice for next week’s graduation parties. With two a day, every day of the week, and mine topping off the celebration on Friday, there’s only one course of action to take.

I have to apologize to my brain, warn my kidneys, and trade in my liver for a new one with a life-time guarantee.