Pre-party, sitting on the store shelf:

Here we are, fifty cups.  Sitting in a bag, waiting to be picked up on a nice Friday night!  Fifty red plastic cups, top of the line!  I'm so excited for us, I wonder who'll pick us up, or what we'll be filled with?  Maybe orange juice, or Kool-aid.  I'm really feeling Kool-aid right now.  Or, ooh!  Maybe it'll be something real classy, like champagne.

Here's a customer now!  Hmm.  Kind of pimply faced.  A little young.  Not what I pictured.  Oh well, beggars can't be choosers.

At the party:

Hmm, what a great many guests!  All ready to drink some tasty liquid out of some great plastic cups!  High quality, durable cups!

And, here's the beverage of the night..what?  Busch Lite?  Natty Ice?!  Why would such low class substances be poured into me?  Tastes horrible.

And what's this?  They're arranging us in opposing triangular formations of ten.  Why not in the customary manner of one cup per guest?  And now ping pong balls?  Why are they throwing ping pong balls into us?  Do they think this is some immature game of Bozo Buckets?  And now they're all dipping their grimy hands into each cup before drinking?!  Highly unsanitary.

They never taught us these crude rituals at the store.

Halfway into the party:

Thank god that's over!  What they call beer pong, I call purgatory, and moreover quite crass.  At least they're done, with that anyways.  They're around the table taking shots.  Poor shot glasses—made of glass and not plastic.  Far less durable, and far less flexible.  The intoxicated youths could drop and fracture any of them!

They did crumple and toss me to the floor, the rascals.  That's certainly no trouble though, as any one of them could simply pop me back into sha—WHAT NOW?!

An overly inebriated girl just vomited all over me, the floor and several other cups.  Me.  A durable, high class plastic cup.  A top of the line liquid consumption implement.  Well, I suppose I can at least rest now.  All that beer just makes me want to schleep.

The next morning:

By the stony eyes of Medusa that night was wild!  I can't even remem—I'm crushed and covered in vomit.  Fuck.

Just like my mom told me—stay to the back of the shelf on weekends, parties are hell.  But did I listen?  No.  Even when Grampa Cup told me of the great Tri Del duct tape only party.  He was the only cup to get out, and only because a frat boy stuffed his pants with Gramps as a joke and forgot he was there. Nevermind that though.  I'll just get cleaned up, uncrinkled and then put this ordeal behind me.

I'm putting this lesson in the bank: no more parties.  No sir, I am too classy, too durable a cup.  Such crass behavior is beneath me.  It's champagne and orange juice from here on out.

That afternoon:

Here he comes!  My owner, my saviour!  Clean me up, lord!  Clear out these crumples!  I'm ready to serve you again.

What's that?  A trash bag?  Surely he won't toss me—Jesus, there goes Sandy!

Whatever, she was kind of a slutty cup anyways, letting just anyone take a big old sip.  I'm far more durable, just like they told me at the store.  No way I'm going in there like some piece of trash.