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 will run 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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January 13, 1997

So there I was, doin’ the train in a tuxedo, extremely pleased that the clothes I was spilling my drinks on were rented. After all, I have enough trouble getting grass stains out of my overalls; I can’t imagine washing whiskey off a bow tie.

When my buddy originally asked me to be an usher in his wedding, I said to myself, “Self, when else do you get the chance to see all of your old friends, wear other peoples’ dress-up clothes and vandalize someone’s car and have them thank you for it?” Needless to say, he didn’t have to twist my arm to convince me.

The only drawback to ushing is getting all the folks out of the church. See, there’s a tradition that the bride and groom and their parents stand right outside the church doors to greet those in attendance and share a special moment.

Now in theory, this is a truly touching sentiment, but someone along the evolution of this ritual made a rule that each person must share 5 to 10 minutes worth of memories with the newlyweds, even if they just met that morning outside the church.

These special memories, while quite meaningful for those reminiscing, mean that the other 447 people in their seats have to wait a minimum of three hours before they get to the reception.

During this time, those seated near the back of the church start losing feeling in their legs from sitting in those oh-so-comfortable wooden pews for most of the day in their way-too-tight suits that seemed to fit much better when they were college freshmen.

These folks, normally well-wishing friends and family, start eyeing the ushers in a not-so-friendly manner because they know one thing is a fact: The later they get to the reception, the less free booze will be left for the taking. Vicious savages.

Anyway, after numerous death threats and bribery offers, my ushing partner and I got everyone out and on their way and we were ready for anything — beer, champagne, mixed drinks, or (D) all of the above.

After we’d been at the bar for a while, me and Eddie and Eddie’s cousin Chet from Nebraska (he’s kind of odd, but hey, he’s family) all decided to hit the dance floor for the song “Strokin” where you can see 18 versions of one line dance, but at least none of them resemble that damn “Macarena.”

Well, while Chet was strokin’ to the east and strokin’ to the west, he happened to bump a table that had some girl’s beer on it and when I saw it toppling I did a slow motion, Willie-Mayes-Hayes dive in an attempt to make the beautiful Sportscenter-Play-of-the-Day save out of a true love for beer.

Instead, I succeeded in slamming my head into her chair, splitting the rear of my tux pants and spilling my whiskey sour on her foot. And they say chivalry is dead.

My efforts were rewarded with profanity from my damsel in distress demanding I buy her another beer for spilling this one. So while I laid on the less-than-clean bar floor with an empty glass and my butt hanging out, Chet just kept on strokin’ with the woman that he loved the best.

Since I knew that I wasn’t going to get away from my bitter maiden without agreeing to buy her a drink, I assured her I would be right back with a beer. Well, that wasn’t good enough for the queen of scorn. She demanded collateral until I returned with bottle in hand. Her much-larger-than-me boyfriend let me know that he thought that was a good idea.

So there I was, taking off my tux jacket and bowtie and handing them over to pissed-off strangers, wishing that the D.J. would have just played “The Train” again for the sixth time of the night instead of that damn Clarence Carter song.

When I got up to the bar to buy Conan’s girlfriend a drink, I realized that I’d spent my last three bucks on my whiskey that had spilled on the same foot that would soon be filling the rip in my trousers to kick my ass if I returned without a drink.

So, I did what any self-respecting gentleman would do to avoid conflict and make sure that everyone was happy with the outcome of the situation.

I left.

Walking home in the arctic storm with a draft on my rear, missing my jacket and wishing that my shirt was actually thicker than Kleenex, one thought kept rushing through my frostbitten head:

Before the next wedding, I’ve either got to get a place closer to the bar or else wear wool boxers to the reception.