Beer pong is proof that we have not yet fully evolved. I ask you, would a fully enlightened and intellectually advanced species ever take pleasure in taking turns aiming plastic balls into plastic cups? While a crowd of other fully enlightened and intellectually advanced people stop everything they’re doing to watch?
That said, I still enjoy the occasional beer pong contest. Something about completely arbitrary contests appeals to the baser, reptilian part of my brain. Much in the same way that video games used to and watching Iron Chef does now. When you’re drunk (which is the only acceptable time to play most drinking games), it’s a better and more sociable way to pass the time than staring at the mirror and trying not to vomit. It hearkens back to the pioneer days, when young people would challenge each other to more innocent social contests, such as Who Can Spit The Farthest, Horseshoes, and Who Can Spread Smallpox Faster.
However, I find the beer pong table less and less inviting with each experience. Mainly because every beer pong table at every party for the rest of eternity will be haunted by The Beer Pong Player.
The Beer Pong Player probably played sports at one point in his life, but quit prematurely. Armed with a simian need for competition and a fair amount of inferiority complex, he turns the pastime of beer pong into a heart stopping sports drama. He thinks of accurately throwing plastic balls as a talent about on par with being bi-lingual or the ability to fly. He enforces the “rules” of beer pong like they were the Samurai rules of Bushido and forgets that drunk people have the same need for rules as rattlesnakes do for chopsticks.
Note that I always say “he” rather than a more vague pronoun. That’s because The Beer Pong Player is always a man. Always. The frightening thing is that he is convinced that all women find his mighty-ball-sinking-aura as a powerful aphrodisiac. Thus, the contest is a sexual mating ritual. He must prove himself. This leads to the unintentional hilarity of him missing shot after shot, lamely making excuses about the length of the table.
The Beer Pong Player will spend most of his young partying life playing this game. As he ages, his friends begin to mature lose interest in the game. Increasingly frustrated, he watches as he becomes the Older Guy at parties. Finally, he hangs up his balls for good and enters a long existential funk that will continue for many years until he marries, has children, and will become Rabid Little League Baseball/Football/Soccer Coach.