My dear mother was especially proud when I was accepted to Stanford Law School back in the 1970s. She was confident that her only son would distinguish himself at such an esteemed institution. Certainly being able to rattle off the capitals of the 50 states would translate into fame and glory during my three years on the Farm.

Well, she was partly right.

Let me explain, especially in light of the recent national trauma surrounding the Twinkie bankruptcy cliff. During my third year of law school, I was resident advisor of Hulme House, the graduate apartment house on the outskirts of campus. For acting as a glorified social director and occasionally slipping notices under doors, I received a free apartment, which certainly helped cushion the brunt of paying for law school. While my creative instincts were stifled in class, I considered myself remarkably imaginative when it came to concocting social events to keep 120 graduate students distracted, if not actually entertained. For example, I came up with a Sara Lee party. I went to the local Safeway and bought one of every Sara Lee product—thus providing the residents a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to taste each Sara Lee cake, pie, brownie.

Energized by the success of that event, I moved on to my pièce de résistance—the equivalent of Steve Jobs building on the great popularity of his iPhone by introducing the iPad.

I decided to stage a Twinkathon—a Twinkie-eating contest—right there at Hulme House. (The seed of the idea was planted a few years before when I wrote my undergraduate senior honors thesis at the University of Michigan on the ITT Continental Baking Company. The thesis had a string of antitrust legal and political angles.)

I offered the company’s West Coast office a public relations bonanza— for a few Twinkies, I would ensure gobs of good will on the Stanford campus. The head of marketing for Continental Baking bought my arguments and offered me a dozen dozen Twinkies—and a dozen dozen Ding Dongs. She also lent me a seven-foot Twinkie the Kid outfit.

On the designated evening, the Hulme House lobby was buzzing with excitement. Dozens of graduate students were assembled. A dozen dozen Twinkies were arrayed on a table next to a dozen dozen Ding Dongs nestled next to a dozen gallons of milk. A friend in a referee’s shirt would time how many Twinkies each contestant could eat in 60 seconds. And, I had called The Stanford Daily and Palo Alto Times, who each sent a reporter. All this was presided over by me with Twinkie the Kid at my side.

The first one up, Sarah, a postgraduate student in education, ate something like seven Twinkies in the designated 60 seconds. A really strong start.

But then the law of unintended consequences came into play with a vengeance. Apparently, the viscosity of moist cake material mixed with a thick cream filling, inhaled at the unnatural rate of seven per minute, is not esophagus friendly.

Gathering up the skills learned in my three years of law school, my reaction was to panic and pull the emergency fire department alarm, which actually proved to be a good thing, notwithstanding my lack of cool under pressure. Immediately medical students provided aid to the patient and soon the crack Stanford EMT squad arrived and rushed her to Stanford Hospital.

To my lifelong relief, Sarah recovered quickly. She magnanimously received me with a warm smile when I visited her the next day with a dozen roses.

More memorably, I returned the Twinkie the Kid costume to Continental Baking, but not before I walked into both Gerald Gunther’s Constitutional Law and Paul Goldstein’s Real Estate classes dressed up as the Kid, giving them a Twinkie and glass of milk on a tray, admonishing that their classes were so dry, they could use some refreshments.

And importantly, I fulfilled my dear mother’s wish to distinguish myself at Stanford Law School. —Jonathan Kempner is president of TIGER 21, headquartered in New York City.