Dear Worst Beirut Partner Ever:

You were 0 for 7 on bounce shots last night. Seven opportunities to set up, aim, and shoot an uncontested shot - squandered away by your reckless, cowboy approach to the game. Because of you, girls that can't even see a rated R movie alone metaphorically f'ed us in the butt. After your 5th or 6th bounce shot failed, someone behind us chirped "Who brought Balki Bartokomous to the party?"�

They were calling you a retard, dude. Worse, they implied that I was Cousin Larry. Not since Tonya Harding boxed on live television has an athlete been so publicly humiliated.

Instead of high school girls blowjobbing us in the pool house, wooed by our Beirut prowess, we got stoned and ate cookies. Stale Cookies. Stale Oatmeal cookies.

I have Terror Level Red hate for you right now.

But Mister, even though this isn't the first time you've brought shame to our team, you better believe this will be the last time I allow it to happen.

Remember those days when we would run the table like Genghis through the Alps? We would lay waste to entire fraternities, pillaging and looting the pride of all opponents foolish enough to challenge our dominance. If our Beirut play were to be conceptualized in a sculpture, it would be Michangelo's David - perfection.

But those days over. Just like our relationship. You're freakin' fired.

Why, you might ask? Was it just the bounce shots last night? No, dipshit, there's a litany of reasons, screw-ups, tactical mistakes and errors that have pushed me closer and closer to this decision for months. Last night was simply the final shove that sent our relationship free falling into the abyss.

Your recent weight gains have destroyed your once precise toss. Chewbacca had more finesse than you do now. Your hands, covered in meat grease and cheese, simply lack the dexterity to fire off a consistent volley. I can no longer count on you to carry your share.

And then there's the dancing.

You just celebrate way too much after nailing your first shot. I mean c'mon now, there's 6 cups in play. I'm trying to maintain and air of professionalism, but when you nail your opening salvo, you celebrate like some Palestinian kid that just nailed an Israeli tank with a rock. Nice shot, Dancing Queen, nice shot. But it's not just the post-shot Macarena dancing that chaps my ass. Hell, if you hit your shots with any degree of consistency, I'd be dressing up like an Indian Chief and doing the Electric Slide with you. But you don't. At least not anymore you don't.

You were good once. WE were good once, but your shenanigans, obesity, and lack of commitment to the team have reduced us to a bunch of JV league hacks. Jose Canseco has more street-cred than we do. We're a laughing stock, a run-on joke, a goddamn circus act. People crowd around the table to watch us play not because they came to see a couple of marksmen shoot out the lights, but because they want to see the sweating fat kid huck airball after airball off the table. You're a festering sore on the taint of Beirut. An embarrassment not only to me, but to the entire institution of this wonderful drinking game. You disgust me.

Also, I know you've been cheating on me. Playing some games on the side, with some engineering grad student named Ivan. Yeah. You know what? Get fucked you Beirut Whore. I've been faithful to you for four years! Apparently you care about fidelity and honesty as much as you care about physical fitness. Four years, man, four years"¦all wasted by your treacherous adultery.

Well, after summer session is over, and I'm graduated, I'm out of this town, and I'm leaving you with it. I'm serious. My favorite memory of college will be seeing your fat face crying in the rear view mirror while I hightail it out of town.

We will never throw ping-pong balls at Solo Cups filled with beer ever again.
You've made the bed and pissed in it, and now you're sleeping in it. Alone. I hope you're miserable.

Tell Ivan I hope he enjoyed my sloppy seconds.