Brass Balls

Most people probably feel their life isn't interesting enough to fill a book. My story is an exceptional one. I’ve decided to write down everything I remember of my college years. I don’t intend to offend or embarrass anyone. It’s been over 30 years since these events occurred, so I feel it's safe to tell you what happened.
It was an early September day, in 1978, when my brother and I crammed our stuff into my old blue 1970 Mustang and prepared to hit the road for college. Our belongings consisted of a beat-up, piece-of-shit stereo, an alarm clock and a brand new plastic crock-pot, which was my mother’s parting gift. The rest was just some clothes.
The ride to the college campus was about eighty miles, at least a two joint ride. There were no open container laws back then, so a few cold beers were part of the equation. I don’t want to give the impression that we were overly reckless. We could easily handle a beer and a joint and function reasonably well or at least that's what we thought. We were in no rush. We just wanted to sit back and enjoy the ride.