From the Vault is a column copy-and-pasted by Joe when he finds something written in the good ol' days. This is nostalgia at its best. Today's story comes from way back on July 21, 2007, and it chronicles the epic of Team Green (who went a respectable 7-1 last night).
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Who of you reading this has seen a classic sports movie, such as The Mighty Ducks or Remember the Titans? I'm sure you have, admit it. In both of these movies, as well as every other fucking generic sports movie (you know, the ones where a team that has no hope—an African American basketball team in the '60s! Coached by Samuel Jackson! No chance to win!), you see a team that starts out slow. They fucking blow at everything. then all of a sudden, after one subtle change, they rock. They kick ass. Keenan and Kel do their knuckle puck, and Sunshine throws his 500 yard touchdown pass, and Samuel L. Jackson takes the basketball team out for a run through a Gettysburg graveyard at four in the morning, and suddenly the whole team can do nothing but win.
If some moron was moronic enough to make a documentary about beer pong, and decided, for some dumb-shit reason, to document the rise and fall of Team Green, and for some unknown reason this peculiar movie was sponsored by Disney—who, if you think about it, always funds the generic rise-and-fall type sports movies—then this night, tonight, would be that point in the movie where the lead characters suffer their first real downfall, and all because that dastardly villain fucked it up for our heroes, and furthermore got away with it.
But let me back up, and start from the beginning of our Disney/Burholme story.
Team Green has always sucked. From our humble beginnings, shoving beer in a trash bag, both wearing green shirts, to our lowest lows, when we were three-and-sixteen on the beer pong circuit, Kev and I have stuck with it, together, a likable duo who were always down on their luck when it came to pong tournaments (I'm sure you remember the humble beginnings of the Mighty Ducks at this point; everyone tied together, literally, by the coach—to learn teamwork, naturally—and Goldberg farts and everyone loses faith in their hockey team).
But we—metaphorically—ran through the Gettysburg graveyard, and—figuratively—listened to coach Jackson and all of a sudden, to the astonishment of many (Mike included, who, many of you may know, is not speechless on many occasions), Team Green started to kick ass.
They went an unprecedented FOUR WINS ZERO LOSSES at Brianna's Pajama Party (naturally, no one wore pajamas). Maybe the best they'd ever done on any give night previously was one win and numerous losses. But perhaps due to a new found optimism, perhaps due to the fact that Kev and Joe could hold their beer more efficiently this side of Senior Week, or perhaps due to the simple fact that Joe wasn't fucking bending his knees anymore, Team Green was WINNING! Remarkable!!!
And though a Cheltenham ("Sheltenham," more like it) party seemed intimidating, Team Green stood up to the plate, just like Team Duck did to those fucking black-jersey'd Russians, and they gave it their all. Brianna's party proved to be not a fluke at all, but rather a sign that Team Green could reign supreme. And Team Green thus smited their first opponents.
The next team proved to be a tougher match. Nevertheless, Team Green whittled it down to four cups against one. And Joe shots his ball, and it sailed through the air.
And landed squarely and fairly in the single, opaque, brightly-colored cup.
At this point I'll back up and tell a quick little anecdote about a douchebag at this party. As many of you have surely experienced, usually when there is a keg or a house party, all the assholes come out of hiding and show up at said keg or party. I fondly (ha) remember the infamous keg in which the Supreme King Douche punched me in the face for putting a log in the fire. It was snowing, for fuck's sake!
So naturally, it was expected that there be assholes at this particular party Burholme and Co. attended this evening. And sure enough, within 20 minutes, Andrew and I crowned a kid "King Asshole," for he not only bumped into me, but the bump caused a minimal amount of beer to spill on him, and he flipped out. As I am a drinker and not a fighter, I avoided confrontation; nevertheless, he continued the dirty looks. I just laughed him off.
Well, as fate would have it, this dastardly villain would ultimately usurp Team Green's reign on the pong table.
Back to the main story—Joe sinks the cup. BUT!!! OH UNGLORIOUS BUT!!! Our King of Assholes calls a penalty, and naturally all the Sheltenham kids back him up—Joe's elbow was "across the table."
May I say it once.... ladies, cover your ears..... WHAT THE FUCK?!?
Okay, like I said, I wanted to avoid confrontation, so not only did I accept this blatant attempt to fuck the Team Green over, but also I said nothing when The King of Assholes whispers in the opposing team's ear. I should've seen it coming...
Opposing teams pulls out a trick, a damn fucking cheap motherfucking trick, a trick that surely would not be acceptable in national beer pong tournaments, and would sure as hell get their asses beat at a fraternity house, but nevertheless a trick I could do nothing to overturn, as house rule stated nothing against it. He throws the ball as hard as he can and knocks over a cup. He spills beer. AND IT'S RULED OUR LOSS!?
Ladies, earmuffs again.... WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK!!!!
And the worse part of the story is, after all this, they win.
They win.
Maybe this story isn't sponsored by Disney after all. The Mighty Ducks won three times. The Titans won their big match, even with the star quarterback in the hospital with a snapped cock. Hell, even the Americans beat the Soviets while Aerosmith weakly crooned DREAM ON, and for god's sake, no one should've care because that wasn't even the championship!
And Team Green lost.
I'll tell you one thing though: I don't make excuses—Team Green was 3-16 before Brianna's and I accepted that without delay—but this loss was a fucking outrage and you know it.
And thus, we retreated to Jim's Steaks in defeat (perhaps not coincidentally, the King of Assholes, on this night, had donned a "Jim's Steaks" t-shirt; what an unworthy asshole). And thus, we rebuild, we pick ourselves up from the cuffs of our shirts and start anew. And thus, Joe's shitlist grows to two; god help the King of Assholes if Burholme and Co. ever rolls on his crowned ass.
Goodnight.
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