On King’s Cup, Acting French, and Being An Asshole
Everybody has played King’s Cup at least once, but I’ll bet none of you have played according to Eastern Maine rules. There are only a few small changes, but they are worth noting: anyone, at any time, can add any amount of his or her liquor to the Cup; the first king gives out two drinks, the second gives out four, the third eight, and the last gives out sixteen and drinks the Cup.
A large enough group will ensure that several games will be played, and whatever is in the Cup will smell and taste like boiled assholes. Things become even more interesting when people don’t give a shit about the rules you make. One of my rules was that under no circumstances will I drink the Cup for the current game. Nick’s rule for the same game was that any time Senor Fiasco (his drunken alter-ego) says “Ole!”, John has to take a drink.
“Nick, that’s a stupid ru-“
“OLE!”
“Drink up, John.”
The thing you have to understand about John is that he has an iron will. He made a pact with himself in September that he would not drink for the entire semester, and after he gave in to peer pressure one single time, he renewed the pact for the second semester. Us aspiring alcoholics gave him a lot of shit for this attitude, but he knew we were just fucking around and took it in stride like a true gentleman. I’m not sure if this night’s King’s Cup was that one time, but let’s pretend that it was.
During the games, John ended up drinking most of a pint of rum and made it through a few beer, plus he was lucky enough to get the first Cup. He was so drunk by the second game that he started drinking from the Cup in the middle of the round. Speaking of the second Cup, it ended up somehow being the worst combination of beer and liquors possible. Everyone had a sniff and right away pulled an “Oh Dear God” face. You know the one I’m talking about - the one anyone makes when they walk into a room that smells like Death. Me, being the asshole of the night, made a rule that the girl who obviously wanted the Cup the least had to drink it. She wasn’t happy about that, let me tell you. That thing was fucking vile.
It was around this time that John started speaking French. It was also around this time that everyone learned that John was taking a French language course. Soon, anyone who knew enough French to communicate started conversing with John. Apparently I have a lot of friends who know French. Nick and I went out back to smoke cigars because we couldn’t understand a single word anyone was saying. After not too long, John stumbled out the back door onto the deck to take a leak. “Oh!” he exclaimed when he started. “C’est BON!”
We brought that one up for a while.
“How’s the dinner tonight guys?”
“Oh, c’est bon!”
“Did you hear about such and such?”
“Oui! C’est bon!”
Etc. etc.
For the rest of the night, which ended up being four or five hours, John would speak in nothing but French. I remembered enough from Junior High to ask him to repeat what he said in English, if he pleases. He was more than happy to oblige, but not without speaking with a fake French accent. We brought that one up for a while, too.
It was around 3am when, back at King’s (the Cup was played off-campus), John finally decided to retire for the night. Me, still in asshole-mode, could not go back to my room without messing with him. This was clearly the one chance I would get, and I was not going to let it pass me by. Besides, Senor Fiasco gave his approval, and I am not one to question a drunk Mexican [Note: Nick is not actually Mexican; he's French, of all things]. Armed with my Sharpie, I made my escape out the fourth floor window onto the roof of Nick and John’s dorm.
John’s window was only a few feet away, but for that few feet, there was nothing to hang onto. I wasn’t swaying under my own weight too much, so I made it across alright. It must have been my lucky night too because John had left his window open a bit, making my break-and-enter [read: sliding the window up] that much easier. I wasn’t quiet about it either, but John was passed out cold.
I went over to write “BALLS” on his face, but he woke up only after making a P as the start of the B. He started yelling at me in French as I kept trying to write on his face. I had no idea what he was saying until he finally broke character and yelled in his regular voice, “Get the fuck out is what I’m trying to say! And turn the fucking light off!”
He thought that he had caught me before writing anything. He found this out the next morning that this was not the case. A faint P could be seen on the side of his face for the rest of the day.
A large enough group will ensure that several games will be played, and whatever is in the Cup will smell and taste like boiled assholes. Things become even more interesting when people don’t give a shit about the rules you make. One of my rules was that under no circumstances will I drink the Cup for the current game. Nick’s rule for the same game was that any time Senor Fiasco (his drunken alter-ego) says “Ole!”, John has to take a drink.
“Nick, that’s a stupid ru-“
“OLE!”
“Drink up, John.”
The thing you have to understand about John is that he has an iron will. He made a pact with himself in September that he would not drink for the entire semester, and after he gave in to peer pressure one single time, he renewed the pact for the second semester. Us aspiring alcoholics gave him a lot of shit for this attitude, but he knew we were just fucking around and took it in stride like a true gentleman. I’m not sure if this night’s King’s Cup was that one time, but let’s pretend that it was.
During the games, John ended up drinking most of a pint of rum and made it through a few beer, plus he was lucky enough to get the first Cup. He was so drunk by the second game that he started drinking from the Cup in the middle of the round. Speaking of the second Cup, it ended up somehow being the worst combination of beer and liquors possible. Everyone had a sniff and right away pulled an “Oh Dear God” face. You know the one I’m talking about - the one anyone makes when they walk into a room that smells like Death. Me, being the asshole of the night, made a rule that the girl who obviously wanted the Cup the least had to drink it. She wasn’t happy about that, let me tell you. That thing was fucking vile.
It was around this time that John started speaking French. It was also around this time that everyone learned that John was taking a French language course. Soon, anyone who knew enough French to communicate started conversing with John. Apparently I have a lot of friends who know French. Nick and I went out back to smoke cigars because we couldn’t understand a single word anyone was saying. After not too long, John stumbled out the back door onto the deck to take a leak. “Oh!” he exclaimed when he started. “C’est BON!”
We brought that one up for a while.
“How’s the dinner tonight guys?”
“Oh, c’est bon!”
“Did you hear about such and such?”
“Oui! C’est bon!”
Etc. etc.
For the rest of the night, which ended up being four or five hours, John would speak in nothing but French. I remembered enough from Junior High to ask him to repeat what he said in English, if he pleases. He was more than happy to oblige, but not without speaking with a fake French accent. We brought that one up for a while, too.
It was around 3am when, back at King’s (the Cup was played off-campus), John finally decided to retire for the night. Me, still in asshole-mode, could not go back to my room without messing with him. This was clearly the one chance I would get, and I was not going to let it pass me by. Besides, Senor Fiasco gave his approval, and I am not one to question a drunk Mexican [Note: Nick is not actually Mexican; he's French, of all things]. Armed with my Sharpie, I made my escape out the fourth floor window onto the roof of Nick and John’s dorm.
John’s window was only a few feet away, but for that few feet, there was nothing to hang onto. I wasn’t swaying under my own weight too much, so I made it across alright. It must have been my lucky night too because John had left his window open a bit, making my break-and-enter [read: sliding the window up] that much easier. I wasn’t quiet about it either, but John was passed out cold.
I went over to write “BALLS” on his face, but he woke up only after making a P as the start of the B. He started yelling at me in French as I kept trying to write on his face. I had no idea what he was saying until he finally broke character and yelled in his regular voice, “Get the fuck out is what I’m trying to say! And turn the fucking light off!”
He thought that he had caught me before writing anything. He found this out the next morning that this was not the case. A faint P could be seen on the side of his face for the rest of the day.