By Bella Takata

Dear Binston Swongo, 

10/10 is next weekend, and I’m pretty sure I’m not going to make it through the day. Not that I think I’m going to die or anything, but 10/10 is a marathon and I’m more of a sprint kinda guy.

I have a pretty bad track record. Last year, at my first 10/10, I didn’t even start drinking until around 1 pm. We’d had a competition earlier that day, so my buddies were eager to get a “running start” when they burst into my room with enough alcohol to kill a Trojan army. I hardly made it to the first party. The tally marks counting the drinks on my arm were in the dozens within the first hour, and I’m not particularly big and strong or anything, so this really got me. At wrestling, I was sprawled out on the lawn 20 feet away, and by 3 pm, I was asleep in bed!

I awoke at dinnertime and for the rest of the day couldn’t smell a drink without feeling a wave of nausea. You can imagine how that would be difficult. By the end of the night, I was sick, tired, and hooking up with… well, that doesn’t matter. The problem is, when I drink, I get sleepy! With such a long day of festivities, how can I keep my energy up, my drinks flowing in spades, and still make sure I’m not sleeping through all the fun? 

Sincerely, Eepy Errol (he/him)

Dear Eepy Errol, 

What a conundrum you’re facing, young paladin! I remember my first 10/10 like it was yesterday. We Grinnellians were so excited to be paid for the first time. I remember standing there on the stoop of our academic building in my rags, waiting for the announcement. Oh, how we cheered when they told us that we would finally be compensated for all our labors in the mines, digging up materials to build the new dorms! I took off my cap and gave the boy next to me a sweeping hug, so caught up in the moment that I was impaled by his protruding ribs. Through my pain, I shouted, 

“Let’s party, young man!” 

Severe blood loss aside, I was determined to celebrate our achievement. I wanted to drink in the day! C’est la vie! Carpe Diem! Yolo! Et Cetera! Et tu, Brute? We started off right at ten o’clock in the morning, my buds and I (some famous figures amongst the bunch, JR Center, Buck Baum, Saint Rest, Grindelwald Smell, Seabert Government, Julius (of the Prairie), some real high rollers), with the morning shot, taken from the cup of the foreskin, as was traditional in those times. We then made our way over to the first stop, 11 o’clock dueling on the lawn.

I dueled with Buck Baum, Seabert Government, and Julius (of the Prairie), amongst whom Julius was the only one who felled me. When I was slashed, a clear liquid ran from my skin, which we discovered, upon tasting, was alcoholic. Thus inebriated with the drink of my blood, we began to sway and sing on our way to the next event, noon o’clock mud wrestling. The pits that year were outfitted with spikes and snakes and other delightful obstacles to make the festivities more exciting. The audience was placed in a ring around the combatants, in a form somewhat resembling the coliseums I had fought in some time ago. Spurred on by several more shots from the cut in my side, I called upon my faithful steed to accompany me into the pit with Grindelwald Smell. I lost a finger to a snake in that pit, but succeeded in pinning Smell. 

After the fight, it becomes hazy. As I recall, a beautiful woman in a halo of silver light approached me and offered to clean my wounds. Her gentle fingers washed off all the mud and wrapped my bloodless wound, all while speaking to me in a soothing tone. She told me her name was Saint Shaw, and she asked me if I would come home with her. I obliged, and she led me down a long corridor into an arena of blinding light. I felt no pain or drunkenness when I was surrounded by the light, and when I looked down, my bandages were gone and my wounds were healed. Saint Shaw turned to me, radiant, and asked if I would like to continue on with her. At the same time, I heard in the distance the faint calling of my friends. 

“Binston!” they called, “B-dub! The big swong! Where are you, bro? We’ve got half a bottle of Hawkeye out here with Swongo written all over it!”

I looked at my saint one last time. I told her that I was sorry, but I had to go. The Hawkeye needed me. I returned just in time for drinner, and spent the rest of the night swishing beats on the gramophone. To this day, I am the best deejay Grinnell has ever seen. Anyhow, I am sorry to hear that you’re eepy, my friend! Have you tried cocaine?

Sending grace,

Binston Swongo