Dear Guy Who Takes Beer Pong Way, Way Too Seriously,

Greetings and salutations. I don't believe we're ever officially met. My name is Matt and we had the good fortunate of both being invited to a stellar party at our mutual acquaintance's house last night.

I'm sure you wouldn't remember me from just standing around near the keg, however, but you might remember me from something else. For you and I, my friend, played beer pong against each other. And, My God, did you take it seriously.

I was under the impression, as were most of the people at the party that night, that beer pong was a game and just a game. You, however, seemed to look at it as if it were the supreme test of manhood. It was as if you saw throwing a ping-pong ball into a cup to be the absolute apex of masculinity. Your unwarranted enthusiasm was alarming.

I must ask, what exactly was going through your head? I've seen professional athletes in the pinnacle of their sports acting more demure than you were. The fist pumping, the screaming, the taunting gestures, it was all over a game invented so people could have more of an excuse to drink alcohol. My favorite point of the evening was when we began play and you told me to, "watch out, because I'm the craziest motherfucker you'll ever fuck with." And this was said in complete seriousness.

"Remember, if you miss you
have to drink ALL of the other
team's Juicy Juice."
Perhaps you see this letter as a declaration of my jealously at your superb beer pong skills. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I'm sure this point never actually entered your mind, but I actually enjoy drinking alcohol. I don't find it to be a punishment at all. It's like a relief to me when you make a shot, as it means I don't have to stand around at a keg party not drinking. Perhaps you find standing around for ten minutes while drunks attempt to perform some ridiculous task, in this case throwing a ball into a cup, before you can take a drink amusing, but I don't.

I will readily admit that my beer pong skills were weak compared to yours. You clearly were the better man that night. Perhaps calling you the better man is slightly misleading, as no man I know would label himself the "Lord of the Beer Pong Table." You are not "Lord of the Beer Pong Table"; you are not even "Low-Level Middle Management of the Beer Pong Table". You are an idiot. This was made perfectly clear to everyone in attendance when, upon your victory, you celebrated not with a handshake and a job well done, but with a crazy dance that made me think for a moment that you might be having a seizure or that you were on fire.

Perhaps to you, your victory was akin to Walt Chamberlain's 100-point game, Don Sutton's World Series no-hitter, or Franco Harris' "Immaculate Reception". I hope you will not take it too personally when I tell you that your accomplishment is in no way similar to any of these events. If anything, the wild celebration of your "victory" is a direct slap in the face to everything these men have worked and strived for. There is no doubt in my mind that if he found out about your antics and was given the opportunity, Franco Harris would beat the retarded right out of your silly ass.

This notwithstanding, I'm sure in your mind, you celebrated your victory over me with beautiful women on your arm and thousands, nay millions, of adoring fans looking up to you. In your deranged imagination, men want to be you and women what to be with you. In actuality, however, no one wants to be near you and your own mother and father are so ashamed of you they can't even look you in the eye anymore.

I've said many harsh things in this letter, but I don't want you to think it's out of anger. In fact, as a token of friendship, I'd like to present you with something. Along with this note, you'll find your very own Beer Pong Championship Belt. You've clearly earned it. Now, I realize that this particular item was fashioned out of cardboard and ace bandages, but if you're delusional enough to believe that beer pong is a sport worthy of your inane posturing and trash-talk, then you're delusional enough to believe that this belt is actually made out of gold and leather. Wear it with the same pride you do your slightly distressed American Eagle-brand trucker cap.

And on that last note, I'd just like to again say how ridiculous you, and how seriously you take beer pong, is to me. Truth of the matter is, if you keep these kinds of antics up, I'm confident you'll die alone, you Abercrombie and Fitch wearing motherfucker.


Matt Hulten

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