Beer Pong

Can I just tell you how over beer pong I am?

Beer Pong. I am so over it. Utterly. Viscerally.
Over.
It.

I am so big, fat, over beer pong. It is a disgusting game, it is a massive time-sink. It is an inefficient means of achieving drunkness and it isn’t exactly the most flattering means of engaging strangers/friends in friendly competition.

Mostly though, it is a revolting game. For those of you unfamiliar (as if) with this game, you put a big door-sized board on a couple of saw horses and line up a small bowling-style pyramid of beer cups on each end of the board and then take turns to try to throw/bounce pingpong balls into the beer cups of your opponent. Ball in cup = opponent drinks the contents. Sounds innocent right? Well, take into account that beer pong is typically a back yard game, or a garage game, during which rogue balls and bad throws often end up in the bushes, rolling around in the dog food, bouncing around under the toolboxes and workbenches in the garage. We’re talking dirt, we’re talking spiderwebs, we’re talking car grease and dog fur and sandy spots in the garden where rabbits and squirrels spend the night and where neighborhood cats do their diggin’ and buryin' duties.

So you’re gonna’ snatch a pingpong ball out of THAT and drop it in your beer? Your weak as hell keg beer? Your super foamy, showing every floating speck of dirt and body hair, keg beer that you spent all that time carefully measuring out into those blue/red plastic cups?

Oh no, you say.
There’s a wash cup nearby you say.
And the balls get dipped and washed in that water every time for a clean start you say.

Um… have you LOOKED in those washcups? Might as well be dipping your balls in a public toilet, kiddos, seriously. And no, the alcohol content of the beer is not enough to sterilize the garage-germs or the bunny poop.

Get a significant amount bleach in there and then MAYBE we’ll talk. Gech.

Maybe it’s because I’m always dead-sober at these parties (the honor bound designated driver that I am) and maybe it’s because midnight is never as much fun sober as it is when you’re twentythree and stinking drunk and horny as hell. But seriously? If I never see another beer pong table it’ll be too soon.

Okay, let’s talk about the skill involved – I totally get that. THAT is actually kind of fun in a booze-soaked 3D Wii kind of way. I like throwing things into things from a distance too, and I like trying to do complicated stuff with unexpectedly benign stuff. That I get. What I don’t get is how people can make a single match drag on for 6 hours while the rest of the lined-up competitors wait patiently for their turn.

Honestly, each match takes For. Ev. Uhr. Rrrr.

And when the clock is tickling one in the morning I just don’t give a damn anymore. Nobody is coordinated enough to make the tough shots, nobody is smart enough to suggest any sporty, game changing shots (think H.O.R.S.E.) and the only people clear enough in the head to have a conversation with are drowned out by the monotonous thumping sound track of whatever radio station is on in the background (read 3 feet away) set to uber-loud for the sake of making it sound like a party.

So listen, I know I’m old as hell and stuff. I understand that I have a good ten years on most of the people my main squeeze parties with and I have made peace with my cranky old lady hat. I do also acknowledge that I’ve had some VERY interesting conversations and made some great friends while waiting with my beloved for his turn at the beer pong table. The people that play beer pong, and those who have my beloved and I over at their parties where beer pong will be played, are some of the best people in the world and my life would be weak and papery without them.

However, every time someone takes a big room-temperature gulp of that contaminated beer it just makes my stomach churn. The funniest thing is that sometimes hormones start to kick in and some of the guys are like “hey, how YOU doin’?” and I’m all dude, no contest. First because I’ve already got the best man in the room and distantly next because, lo, beer pong-ers all have bunny-dirt breath and their mouths promise naught but garage-spiders.

Just gross, dude. Just… big fat yick.

That's all. Teh beer pong. I am so over it.