One of the dancers was nimble enough to stuff my pilsner glass underneath her g-string

This dates back to when Minnesota State University-Mankato was simply Mankato State College.

The summer before my freshman year I received a rush letter from the local chapter of Phi Kappa Psi. They were sponsoring a weekend filled with beer and watersports for prospective pledges (this was back when Minnesota had dropped their minimum drinking age to 18).

Despite knowing that I barely had enough money for classes and books, let alone fraternity dues, I made the trip anyway to take advantage of the free party.

I arrived at the frat on a rainy Saturday morning to discover the watersports had been cancelled, so we started the day with beer, doughnuts and tunes on their stereo. The leader of this pack (chapter president? social director?) was a junior phys-ed major, captain of the football team, built like (and with the brains of) a block of granite. He was friendly enough though, and great at encouraging everybody to commit acts of epic drinking.

Come afternoon it was decided to hit the local bars. Things get a bit fuzzy at this point, but I remember enjoying my first ever visit to a strip club. One of the dancers was nimble enough to stuff my pilsner glass underneath her g-string; then she had me chug the beer with neither one of us using our hands (god, I wish there was a picture).

The night ended at closing time, when a couple of us pledges discovered that we'd been separated from the group and we were all by ourselves. We had no phone number for the frat and no idea where we were.

Ah to be young, drunk and stupid again. We were too looped to think about calling a cab and decided to stumble in the general direction of frat row, hoping "the force" would guide us. We were so drunk that we had to link arms aroung shoulders and hold each other up as we staggered down the street.

After about half an hour we were utterly, hopelessly lost. We spotted a house where, through the window, we could see a girl of coed age apparently studying. We knocked on the door and when she opened it we shared out tale of woe.

She rolled her eyes, smiled, and offered to give us a ride to the frat. It turned out that this wasn't the first time that drunken pledges had wandered to her door. I would have nominated her for sainthood, but otherwise had to show my gratitude by not puking in her car.

Most of the frat woke up the next afternoon and, showing the resiliency of youth, went to Happy Chef for a farmer's breakfast, most of which ended up on Highway 14 as I drove back home to Rochester.