Nip Cup and the Gods of Thunder

In which Our Protagonist goes a bit nuts

September 21, 2007. Friday night.

Lani wanted me to party in Hollywood with her Norwegian friends, but I was unsure as to that course of action, mainly because I felt like I would've been the fifth wheel in a NORGY. (For the uninitiated, a Norgy is the clinical term for a Norwegian orgy.)

I called up Erik. He sounded like he was already getting after it, boozing it up at Sharkeez. Manhattan Beach was a much easier drive than Hollywood, so I decided to stay local and party with him.

I walked into Sharkeez. It seemed a bit heavy on dudes, but the ratio wasn't terrible. Erik was on my immediate right, on the phone, presumably with his girl. He gave me an enthusiastic greeting and told me where his friends were sitting.

I arrived at the table with two pitchers, which earned me six more enthusiastic greetings. I knew that they loved me for my beer, but I didn't mind. In short order Erik arrived at the table and joined us.

"Dude, I've been playing Robofuck at work; I love it!" Brett was telling me. Robofuck was the name of a mix CD I made for one of Erik's parties.

"Niiice." I was pretty pleased to hear that my mix was still getting rotation.

"Yeah, I listen to 'We are the robots' and it inspires me to work faster than ever before."

I was truly glad to hear that Kraftwerk has a practical application in the aerospace industry.

Soon we began to play flip cup. Erik's crew played an odd variant of the game: instead of toasting, pounding, and then flipping, one had to do a crossed arm double fist pound, answer a random question, pound the beer, and then flip the cup.

Appalled, yet intrigued, by the complexity of this ritual, I decided to further its intricacy. In short order I proposed a variant of this game, which we promptly adopted: after flipping the cup, one had to expose a single nipple prior to their teammate starting their turn.

And thus NIP CUP was born.

The female competitors, apparently more inhibited than myself and my hairy-nippled colleagues, abstained from that particular step of the game, but compromised in exposing a non-nippled portion of their breast, to which we grudgingly consented.

"I think this is the best version of flip cup ever," I said, meaning it.
"Uh, actually we've played Strip Cup before," said Jeff.
"Yeah, that was pretty great," agreed Erik.

Foiled again. Nonetheless, I will stand by Nip Cup as my favorite variant of the game.

Mike and Kara, Erik's girl, arrived at various points during our primitive drinking rites. After a few hours of mirth, revelry, and drunken conversation with people I didn't know, I found myself drinking beer out of a cardboard nacho tray. I then threw back a shot of red salsa out of the plastic salsa cup, and promptly chased it with another beer out of the nacho tray.

I have no idea why I did this. However, I do recall that it was considerably more enjoyable than drinking out of a cup.

Later on, Beau and I finished off the vast majority of a pitcher by drinking out of the sides of the vessel, rather than taking the time to fill up our cups. This, too, I found to be more enjoyable than drinking out of a traditional plastic receptacle.

People were staring at us for a sizable chunk of the night. I imagine that the girls were thinking "Who are those hot, incredibly drunk guys over there? That one drinking salsa is particularly cute..." The dudes were probably thinking "I wish I was friends with those guys."

As we walked to Erik's apartment post-Sharkeez, we found ourselves greeted with rain and flashes of lightning. We had been in Erik's apartment for all of ten seconds when I decided that I wanted to do a Shawshank Redemption.

"I wanna do a Shawshank Redemption!" I bellowed drunkenly.

(For the uninitiated, a Shawshank Redemption is where you stand out in the rain, arms raised to the heavens in deep gratitude, spinning slowly, a la Tim Robbins in that classic film that lends the aforementioned activity its name.)

Inexplicably, people seemed to understand what I meant, for I found myself leading a screaming exodus of shirtless, college educated drunkards out from the apartment and into the pouring rain.

We stood in the rain half naked, screaming out barbaric yawps of unadulterated joy as passing cars honked their horns at us.

Soon we found ourselves in the middle of the road, playing chicken with oncoming traffic, fists raised defiantly as large SUVs careened through the torrential rain, hi-beams flashing, right at us.

Luckily, we always moved in time. (Kids, don't try this at home... I'm a trained professional.)

Lightning bolts flashed in the blackened skies and thunder rolled along the coast. We sang our victory song while it rained buckets on top of us. We were cavemen; we were Scottish rebels. We were Viking Gods.

For some reason Kara was kicking puddles of water onto my already soaked jeans. I fled back to the safety of the middle of the road, and proceeded to dance the best C-Walk I have ever danced, while my peers looked on in mild admiration, or so I imagined.

Admittedly, it was a terribly mediocre C-Walk. But it was nonetheless the best one I've ever done.

"Were you just C-Walking?" Erik asked me.
"Yep."
"Cool."

I could tell that it was the best C-Walk I had ever performed because Erik actually recognized what I was doing. Normally, when I C-Walk, people just stare at me blankly.

Eventually we wandered back inside. I decided to walk out to my car and get my backpack, which had dry clothes inside.

The air smelled fresh and clean, and the rain had subsided to a soothing drizzle as I walked the few blocks along Highland Avenue towards my car. I got my backpack and continued back to Erik's.

Along my way I saw a stooped figure standing in an unfinished house, obtaining quiet respite from the rain.

"Hey man, how's it going?"

"Eh huh a guh ruh thuh bluh."

He was an old, homeless, black man, and for the life of me I could not understand a word he said. Nonetheless, I engaged him in conversation.

We talked for a few minutes, but, try as I might, I could not decipher his speech. I gave him 20 bucks and he thanked me incoherently. I bid him a fond farewell and continued on my way.

It struck me that maybe he was pretending to be incoherent in order to avoid conversing with me. Admittedly, I must've been a somewhat fearsome sight to behold: shirtless in jeans and a backpack, completely drenched, presumably drunk, with a black claw hanging from a chain around my neck. Perhaps he just wanted to avoid me altogether.

Hell, I don't blame him.

To be continued...