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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March 21, 1997

So there I was, waiting in line at America’s Pub in Westport, when I see this girl with toilet paper wrapped around her head and a white T-shirt that looks like a prize she won with eight proofs of purchase from Candy Land, and I realize that, yes, there are people more messed up than myself.

Just as I think that this situation couldn’t be any more awkward, she taps me on the shoulder and says, “Suck for a buck?”

Oh, how I love a spring break Saturday night in Kansas City.

Curious as to the legality of her proposition, I turned to one of her ear-to-ear-grinning companions and asked what actions should be taken and whether I needed an attorney present before replying.

The spokeswoman for the group, as incoherent as the spoken word was, told me that for the small price of a dollar, I could have one of the future bride’s Lifesavers to have and to hold until suction does us part.

Now this isn’t just any regular old Lifesaver, nosirreebob. These small, flavored candies have been strung to an old, white undershirt and paraded around all day with no sign of a born-on date to tell me which decade they were produced, and I’m supposed to pay an inflated price simply because I get to tear the little sucker from the clothing of some spoken-for bride-to-be who will forget my name the moment that string breaks and the cash is in her pocket.

So I did what any poor bloke would do and gave her two bucks and had her direct me toward the circular tasty sweet of her choice. With an abundance of scrumptious rings to choose from, I figured it might take her a minute to select my target.

I was mistaken. Without hesitation, she points to a lime one that happened to be hanging in a place that I thought would only be suitable for the other half of the engaged party to take part in, but that’s the candy that the little lady wanted me to snag.

So there I was, leaned over a bit, gripping the Lifesaver between my teeth, wondering where the candid camera was, when the spokesdrunkard says, “Wait, I gotta get a picture of this.”

First thought that came to my head was, “Damn, these little strings are tough.”

Quickly after that, though, another thought entered my mind. This thought included the words “incriminating evidence,” and I knew that my hopes of ever becoming a politician were shot for good.

So after a few snapshots of me getting my sugar high, it was time to head into the bar.

Monica and I had danced there the night before, and it was a pretty cool place aside from the guy with the microphone that ran around the bar (which he called “the house”) announcing who people were and where they were from. I just figured that he’d had a recent head injury and mistakenly thought he was Eric from “The Grind” on MTV and that it was his job to say hi to people (which he called “shouts out”).

Anyway, she had skipped free drinks at Embassy Suites (silly girl) and had spent the day sweating off her intoxication by being squished and squeezed and pushed and pulled all throughout Kelly’s.

She told me that she would just meet me at the Pub after I was done exploiting Embassy’s foolish offer.

So there I was, showing my ID to the much-bigger-than-me bouncer when he makes a comment that my pants look a little baggy.

My first reaction was to thank him for noticing that I’ve been working-out, but by the look on his face, I figured out that his comment wasn’t meant to be complimentary.

He proceeded to tell me that due to their “strict dress code,” he couldn’t allow me into the bar because my khakis hung a bit loose from my frame.

I told him not to worry because, though not proud of my lack of wardrobe, I had worn the exact same slacks to the exact same bar the night before and had somehow avoided bringing around the destruction of all mankind and would take the same precautions on this night as well.

He then grumbled something about me being a bit of a smart ass.

I proceeded to remind him that I must not be a very big smart ass, otherwise my pants would fit just a little more snug and I could stroll into the bar without a problem.

I tried to assure him that I wasn’t smuggling an arsenal of illegal firearms or hiding a case of bottles in my drawers and almost volunteered to be patted down, but decided against it when I saw the studded dog collar around his neck.

Nonetheless, my negotiating was futile and I was turned away by Sir Steroid out into the street to vent my frustration to the growing line of thirsty patrons before returning to the beer garden to drown my sorrows.

The next morning, over a tasty complimentary breakfast, Monica tried her best to cheer me up.

First she told me that the Eric wannabe had tried to grind with her but instead fell over one of the little railings and had broken his ankle and his microphone. That brought about a smile.

Then she made me feel better about not getting into the bar by telling me that it’s not the size of a person’s pants that really matters, but what’s inside that counts.

I assume she meant my wallet.