Tiger Beat, Chapter 2: Let Me See That Pong

Welcome back, amigos, and thank you for opting, possibly against your will, to come back after the last chapter's epic Ode to T-Bell! Today's installment of the Tiger Beat Chronicles promises to be at least that exciting, and hopefully less nauseating.

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After seven and a half hours of Donna Summer-themed ear rape and several verbal assaults from the haughty GPS madam who became i-freakin-rate when we turned off the prescribed Yellow Brick Road to stop for gas, Mom and I cruised into Clemson, Scarolina, home to the Clemson Tigers, Death Valley, and more Bojangles chicky-huts than I have pairs of shoes.*

We dressed for dinner and met Questicle and his girlfriend Macy, who is both tiny and fabulous, for dinner at a restaurant called The Blue Heron. Since Clemson is a small-town college joint, and since it was being invaded by at least 20,000 proud parents that weekend, we had set the bar for food pretty low, expecting glorified bar food served by mumbling waiters in restaurants crammed with t-shirt-wearin' rednecks whose crowning glory was their NASCAR belt buckles with real light-up parts. Like Applebee's with a side of cheese grits and indignity.

All my regular snarkasm aside, oh my dear Lord, The Blue Heron was one of the single best meals that I, or anyone else at the table, had ever had. And we, a group of die hard foodies, are a hard sell. At the end of the meal, my dad actually wanted to summon the chef to our table so we could (I am not making this up) give him a standing ovation. The thought of this mortal humiliation horrified me in a way that could only be eclipsed by my dad trying to give the DJ at the "Rainforest Romance" middle-school dance a standing O for his really bitchin' remix of the Macarena.

Fortunately for my reputation, the chef was busy, either cooking for other patrons or laughing so hard at the suggestion that he peed his balsamic reduction-stained pants.

After dinner Mom and Dad headed back to their hotel, and I headed to Questicle's apartment to pretend I was a college student before I would eventually crash for the evening on my air mattress in Questicle's spare bedroom. In honor of the solemn commencement rituals of the weekend, Questicle and his roommate had invited everyone they knew to show up with shitty beer and belly up to the spray-painted majesty of the plywood beer pong table that crowned their apartment.

When I was in college I was terrible at beer pong, in the same way that I'm terrible at any sport that involves throwing things, unless it's throwing bullshit at my boss, a game at which I am the office Michael Phelps. Pong always annoyed me because I was so bad that I never made it past the preliminary rounds, and it seemed vaguely inadvisable to drink beer that had just incubated a ball that had been on the floor, in peoples' hands, and in some rare and special cases, in their mouths, which had in turn usually been on, or in, the mouths of other party-goers.

Don't even try to tell me there is enough alcohol in beer to bulldoze that germ jungle.

But since I'm out of college and therefore Magic At Life, I decided I would show the students how it's really done before the night was over. While I waited for my turn at the table, I mingled with the graduates. I told Macy how much I love her, repeatedly and with the emphasis that can only be conveyed after four vodka lemonades. I bonded with Questicle, laughing about the ridiculous things we did when we were kids/last week. And in one of the greatest moments of the evening, I met my SameName! She not only had the same name as me, but was also a redhead with a wicked sense of humor. We had a great time comparing the nicknames we get from our SameName, and sharing fashion tips for what matches our SameHair.

Finally, it was my turn at the table, and for my personal World Series of Pong, I had been paired with a guy named Kevin, who agreed to drink all the pong-beer while I continued to slurp vodka lemonades. And who should appear on the other side of the table to play me for ultimate pong glory, but SameName! Oh, it was on.

And how quickly it became apparent that I was very, very off. Not only were SameName and her partner sinking balls more expertly than cheerleaders after the prom,** but none of ours were even coming close to the gold. Mine weren't even clearing the midpoint on the table. After a few airborne failures, Kevin decided to coach me.

"You've got to throw the ball higher, so it clears the tops of the cups."

"Like this?" I said, raising my elbow and preparing to cock my wrist.

"Right," he said. "And throw it harder. Like, a lot harder, so it actually, um, gets to the cups."

Across the table, SameName was talking to her partner, laughing about something. Her partner pointed out that I was about to take another failure-riffic shot, and SameName turned back to the table.

She turned back to the table right as I decided to show Kevin just how hard I could throw. And I threw hard. And I have no aim.

I accidentally hit my SameName. I HIT MY SAMENAME IN THE FACE!!! With the wet, stanky BALL!!

She was, to say the least, stunned, and not surprisingly, my ball did not make the cup. I immediately fell all over myself, partly from the vodka lemonades, and partly in trying to apologize my face off. SameName shook it off gracefully, but I suppose it's easy to overlook a minor battle wound when you beat your opponent six to zero.

*So, countless.
**I HAD TO SAY THAT.

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And that concludes this chapter of the Tiger Beat Chronicles. As we barrel towards Memorial Weekend, be sure to check back for the next episode: Questicle's B.S.