November 1, 1996

So there I was last night, arguing with Bert and Ernie as to whether Oscar the Grouch was really a bastard or if he was just moody when Fred Flintstone comes up and spills his beer on Ernie’s shoe.

Man, I love Halloween.

I’ve been on a sugar high for the last 30 hours and my teeth should start falling out one by one any minute now, but dammit, it was worth every shock tart I had.

Yesterday, me and Eddie were in the holiday spirit and we decided to start the celebration early. So right after lunch, we met at home to have a few screwdrivers.

After all, Halloween’s official colors are the fashionable orange and brown and we figure, Christmas has spiked egg nog, Thanksgiving has wild turkey, Easter has tequila (we haven’t figured that one out yet) so Halloween needed an official drink.

After a few Halloweener Helpers, it was time for the big decision. What the hell should we dress up as for the rest of the night (or afternoon as the case may be)?

Two years ago, we were Kermit and Fozzy and I sweated my butt off with all of that fur stuck to me, so I made a rule: no more muppets.

I thought I had made that clear to Eddie, but somehow last year when he wanted to be Han Solo, he talked me into being Chewbacca.

Once again, I was plucking super glued hair off my face, chest, and extremities for the next month. Not to mention that wookies just don’t get lovin’ like they used to.

So there we were, dancing our butts off and looking good dressed up like our favorite modern day heroes — the amazing Mr. Rogers and his postman pal Mr. McFeeley.

Our costumes cost a total of $5.40 from Goodwill and all I had to do to make the illusion complete was run around with my beer yelling “Speedy Delivery! Speedy Delivery!”

Then it happened. Just when I was making a speedy delivery to the Village People, I saw Chelli on the dance floor making out with some bozo.

What could she possibly see in him? What did he have that I didn’t? Other than the big shoes, red nose and funny glasses, not a damn thing.

Anger mixed with alcohol and I came real close to punching the clown. But I restrained because she looked kind of cute in her red costume and horns and because he was 6-7 and could kick Mr. McFeeley’s ass even with those squeaky orange shoes.

After all, I was on the job and I had a speedy delivery to make.

So I delivered the drinks to the Village People and I did the traffic cop’s shot because he was passed out and they said that a mailman was close enough.

My wildest dreams had come true. I was named an honorary Village Person.

When I got up to the bar to replenish my supply of liquid packages, standing next to me was the she-demon herself.

After mentioning to her that she had some white make-up smudged on her nose, I asked her if she wanted to go dance to “Tootsie Roll.”

What can I say? I’m a guy, therefore I’m dumb.

When we start dancing I try to put my groove on by telling her how much I’ve missed her and how I wish that we could have gotten together sooner and so on and so on blah blah blah.

I was trying to be a poet and speak the words of Shakespeare, but I think I sounded more like Mushmouth from Fat Albert’s Gang.

Regardless of my vocal prowess, I realized our dance was over when she dumped her beer on my head. That seems to be happening a lot lately.

But just when I was ready to go play in heavy traffic, the dark clouds parted and the heavens smiled upon me.

A lovely little black cat came up to me and asked me if everything was all right.

She told me that she had seen that mean girl throw her drink on me and she wanted to make sure I was doing OK.

I assured her I was fine now and danced with her the rest of the night. When the bar closed, I walked her home and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and started the brisk walk back to my place, giddy as a second-grader.

The mile-and-a-half stroll went quickly and it didn’t seem like long before I was back in Mr. Roger’s neighborhood and just as I started telling Eddie about the perfect woman I’d just met, he asked a normally routine question. I didn’t have the routine answer.

Mental note to McFeeley: Next time find out the girl’s name before dreaming of a future together!

And make that mental note a speedy delivery.

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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.