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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April 18, 1997

These are the times that try men’s souls.

So there I was, staring at my growing list of things left to do, when I realized that in the next three weeks I’ve got two semester-long term papers yet to start, one journalism class which I have to pass to earn a diploma, three final exams to b.s. my way through, a source of revenue to find for after I’m done with college life and four kegs of Milwaukee’s Best Light to drain by Monday.

Time to call in help.

The logical choice to aid me in my job search was Eddie’s cousin, Chet, since he’s been seeking employment for the last three years after graduating with a triple major in aerospace engineering, greek and roman architecture, and glass-blowing.

When I gave Chet a call, his roommate Pablo told me he had stepped out to go to the all-you-can-eat pizza buffet and usually stays for three or four hours so the first course will settle and he can have two meals for the price of one.

Not being one to give up easily, I decided I’d let Pablo help me out, so I told him to come on over to my place and bring the classifieds, his copy of Fletch, my remote control and a bottle of Jack Daniels. We had a lot of work to do.

Thumbing through the help-wanted ads, I was a bit unnerved to find that there just isn’t an extensive job market for an overweight, undereducated male with an extensive collection of Eddie Murphy movies and an abused liver. So I turned the page, finished the crossword and Jumble, read my horoscope and called it a day.

After all, how can I be expected to focus on anything productive when it’s Veishea weekend? I figure there’s a time to study, a time to read, a time to work, and a time to get entirely stupid, sillysloppy drunk with half the state of Iowa.

That time is now.

In the true holiday spirit, I’ve devoted the entire week to celebrating this magnificent tradition. It’s kind of like my own personal Advent, but with a lot more alcohol and a lot less candles.

So there I was, taking the night off to be a model student Tuesday night, cramming three months of art history into my brain so I would be fully prepared for the exam Wednesday morning, when I was approached by the archnemesis of education, the wizard of whiskey who thinks that mathematical conversions refer to figuring out the proof of a drink by doubling the percentage of alcohol, and the man whose only two A’s in college stood for the Monday night meetings he had to attend.

Pablo gave me a call when I was in mid-Picasso and told me that some of the guys were going out to celebrate his brother Carl’s birthday and that if I knew what was good for me, I would show.

Standing strong as an oak, I refused to succumb to peer pressure due to the fact that I was busy broadening my intellectual and cultural horizons which would, in turn, allow me to someday become a successful, contributing member in this well-educated, technologically-advanced society of ours.

My mistake came when I allowed him to retort.

“But it’s two-fers.”

Damn him. He was able to use the old jedi mind trick on me, a simple weak-minded fool. I had no choice but to agree.

It’s like my mentor taught me a long time ago at an after-hours far, far away. The dark side is the quicker, easier, more inebriated path that I’ve chosen to stumble down.

Education, attendance—a graduating senior craves not these things.

So there I was, watching Eddie and Pablo come back to the table with a round of shots for the four of us when Pablo’s brother Carl, who happens to be legally blind and spends his days sitting around listening to “Crocodile Hunter” on Animal Planet, stands up on the table and begins reenacting the scene where the 14-foot python began biting Croc Hunter.

That’s what one can expect when an animal enthusiast without vision finds out that the shot they’re doing is called a snake bite. Common mistake.

So there I was, scanning my living arrangements, wondering exactly how I was going to accommodate the dozens of out-of-towners who have told me that they’re coming to visit because they really want to see me and it’s just a coincidence that it’s Veishea, when it dawns on me that if we run out of space, I just call Ames’ finest and complain about elders on the premises, thus securing a bed and breakfast for some of my unruly friends.

Tends to make a guy feel like he lives in an old motel.

Regardless, I’m on a mission this weekend to get all sorts of biggety bam boombastic while I’m enjoying 75 years of leadership through 75 hours of intoxication with 75,000 of my nearest and dearest friends.