Pong

Holy shit. I have pondered the reason for my existence on this planet. Like all mankind, I struggle to find my true calling, the place where I can do the most good in my short time on this planet. I thought it would be to write, either articles or fiction, but now I have found my purpose.

Beer Pong. The World Series of Beer Pong, to be precise.

(Man, I totally think I played on this table during my year at URI. Note the URL.)

Known also as Beirut, Beer Pong is a game that encourages drunk people to develop hand-eye coordination and the ability to drink a large quantity of cheap beer as quickly as possible. If you don't know the rules, clearly you did not go to college, or ever attend a party with people who did. A smallish amount (more as the night goes on) of cheap beer (usually whatever's in the keg) is poured into Solo cups. Then opposing teams try to get a ping-pong ball into their opponent's cup. If the succeed, the opponent must drink the beer from that cup. Whoever makes their opponent drink all the cups of beer first wins. Although I'd argue that the loser doesn't really lose since he's hammered.

Now it's all a matter of getting my team together. I am in poor form with Beer Pong, since I don't think I've played since I was last at the camp with Kristen. So I'll get back into practice, and recruit the best of the best to play with me. My Beer Pong team would be comprised of:

Kristen. She's had years of practice.
Kristen's brother's friend Mark. He looks good without a shirt, and plays well.
My friend Jefe. He was a frat boy at Penn State, and he plays a mean game.
Marianne. She's small and packs a punch.
This guy.
Butchie. He'd be both cheerleader and super-awesome player.

I'm going to save my pennies (not quarters, since that championship is probably coming up) for the registration fee. See you next year, Michigan boys. Quake in fear, lads. Quake!