Ok, now that I’ve recovered from my anaphylactic reaction to douchebaggery, we can all get back to something we can all enjoy– me bagging on myself with extreme prejudice and alacrity. Onward!
Last night I finally got to take rebuilt Jill on a test run of my favorite sport of all time– Beer Pong. Once upon a time, I was the kind of guy who could pick a partner out of the crowd and dominate a table for an entire night, just to watch people get mad. If I was really feeling frisky, I’d switch it up and let Rosie run a riot on the table for sarcasm’s sake. My buddies and I would do all kinds of stupid trick shots, with mine being the Kareem-esque Sky Hook– just not quite as perfect (at least that’s what drunk me remembers, and he has a splendiferous memory). Anyway, back in college, I had five TKE house championships– and all of them with different partners (nobody else since can claim that). That’s right, I’m a TKE, and have been one for a decade this November– and I’ll always be proud of that fact.
Aside from their original Olympic purpose, these babies are better known for being shot outta Winona Ryder's hoo-haa... and better used in God's Game itself-- BEER PONG.
Shameless plug aside, I’ve fallen out of practice in my old age (being responsible sucks, and not in the fun way). Instead of being the unstoppable destroyer, I have more off nights than on– and it frustrates the unholy bullshit out of me when people consider a five game streak a “hot streak.” Screw getting old, but that’s another rant.
I lived the better part of my collegiate career (just short of a geological epoch) sinking cups and screaming obscenities at plastic. Hell, sometimes I still get a spark of the old fire– like the night where I went over to one of my coworkers’ place for a party and proceeded to demolish him and his girlfriend. It gets better. They didn’t shoot once. Jill and Rosie doubleteamed them. It kinda went like this: Jill hits. Rosie hits. Bring ’em back! Jill hits again! You ready for this shit?! Rosie hits again!! Bring ’em back again, bitch!!! GAME. That’s how things used to be every weekend (and many weeknights) for me. Ok, enough geriatric crap outta me, bad enough that I’m still a gimp.
I thought all those days would be over after Jill went under the knife, especially since Rosie has lost her game. Last night, I got to test out how rebuilt Jill would hack the old game. The first game was bad. I couldn’t buy a single freaking cup– even with Rosie. At that point, the cherubs on high must have wept a bitter tear for me. My partner’s back must not have been too sore (you know, from carrying the team), because he wanted to keep it going. I wanted to keep drinking (go figure), so what the Hell did I have to lose? I now know what it feels like to be the replacement punter with a Super Bowl ring.
Then. It happened.
Yes, I was dancing up to the table. Yes, I hit that shit too. You just got beat by a quasi-cripple.
Jill’s memory rebooted, or maybe she drank deep the tears of the cherubs weeping for the fallen legend. Maybe I caught a buzz. We may never know. As we all know (due to my bitching and whining) the rebuilt wrist can’t move for shit (and if you really play, you know that your game is 70-ish% wrist)— but rebuilt Jill finally broke her crucial cherry. Then she hit her very next shot. Team “Mo Gimps” started hitting cups, and bringing back rounds left and right, much to my vociferous joy. You want to talk about elation? I was in a full-arm cast not 10 days ago, and this was the first time that I felt like me since surgery.
It wasn’t to last, in spite of the boozification (yes, that is a word, and a proper description since I was playing pong with mixed drinks), Jill started screaming for mercy. When my doc said to let pain be my guide, I listened. When we finally were defeated, albeit fairly easily once the pain started really kicking, I bowed from the table.
All in all, I’ll take this win. I can freaking play beer pong again. Thus begins the road to recovery, with a shit-eating grin pasted on my face. Guess I’m not a total loss after all.
Unplug.
Snark and Circumstance 