October 25, 1996

So there I was, just hanging out at the bus stop when the bus pulls up and twenty hyper little kids jump off the ride.

My first reaction was to look for the red and gold rugby person thinking we’ve started recruiting real early. Then I realized that it must be that special time in a youngster’s life — field trip.

Times were always good on field trips. All of us climbed on fire trucks, learned where chocolate milk came from, and walked hand in hand by law of the buddy system.

Come to think of it, that may have been the last time a girl actually held my hand in public. Ahh, to be young and foolish with a runny nose and a long sleeve.

Back then, the only controversies at school were which one of Charlie’s Angels was the cutest and which food group hot tamales belonged in.

In first grade, life was simple. There were no letters involved in math yet and I just hoped to live to see the day I learned cursive.

Wind blew through my uncombed hair as I blazed through town on my sweet, red bike with harley-style handlebars and a banana seat built for three.

My bike was my chariot and with a banana seat, it was like a chariot with passenger space.

I could just pull up to the playground after school where all the little hotties in my class were playing four-square and I would clear my throat and ask in my best chick magnet voice:

“Any of you…want a ride?”

They would look at each other, trading glances of anticipation and then one of them would muster up bravery and speak up.

“You know your zipper’s down?”

One peek downward to see my tee-shirt sticking out my fly and I knew I had to bolt. So I peeled out, rode away and thought to myself:

Yep, they missed out.

So there I was this weekend, wearing bibs and staring at a goat.

Eddie had decided to go home for the weekend and he took me with him because I’d never been on a farm before.

That and I had been wearing the same dirty clothes for the past three weeks and his mom offered to do our laundry.

After lunch, Eddie and his pappy tell me that “there’s chorin’ to be done.” Of course, being an eager city boy, I run upstairs, throw on my Big Bens and come back down ready to chore.

Thinking that I was going to slop some hogs or milk a few cows or something cool like that, I started getting hyped up.

I asked Eddie if I could drive the new tractor for a while and he gave me one of those “how much crack have you been smoking” looks. I took that as a no.

Instead, he tells me that I can do one of the most important jobs on the farm. I get to count the herd.

Not knowing what a herd was and being a little shaky on the counting part, I knew I was in for a challenge.

That was when I saw the goats and fear took over my body.

These were real-life goats for god’s sake! I had never seen a real-life goat before.

Sure, I’d seen them on TV and in movies, but never standing ten feet from me.

And there were a bunch of them! Big ones, little ones, ones with horns, ones without, and one that was real curious as to what the hell I was doing in goatville.

That’s the one that trottled up to me and paused a foot away. I’m not exactly sure how someone trottles, but that’s what those goats were doing.

So then this goat decides he’s going to learn about me. The thing is, goats learn by smelling. And since the goat was three-feet tall, he wanted to learn about what was at his level.

Now when a dog does this, it’s cute and kind of funny. But when it’s a goat, it can be the scariest moment of a young man’s life.

I then slowly backed away as not to arouse the goat, slipped through the gate and ran to the barn to tell Eddie my story.

After yelling at me for not counting the damn things, he assured me that the goat was being friendly and had no plans to do any damage.

With a sense of relief, I went back over to my new friend, gave him a pat on the head and told him he was a good goat.

Among other things I learned on my country weekend, I now know that nice goats don’t bite.

And knowing is half the battle.

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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.