We've all been there. Flip flops drenched, that mysterious 'frat sludge' caked on the bottom of your jeans, a warped piece of ply-wood propped up on four mangled chairs serving as your table. You're on fire all game. You have become one with the red Solo cup. The 'table' is properly lubricated with Natty Light so the suction in just right. With every flick of the index finger, that resounding thmph lets you know that another flip has landed successfully.
It has come down to three on each team in this contest of Survivor Flip-Cup. Yourself, your best friend, and your girlfriend or boyfriend. Some one may have to go. You know that your best friend is better. But you also know that if you kick your girlfriend off, you probably won't get any sweet, sweet lovin for, like, a week and you will have to spend like $200 ($12 in college money) wining and dining (a box of Franzia and dollar menu junior bacon cheeseburgers) to dig yourself out of the hole.
They both nail their flips on the first try, and it's up to you to do the same. Suddenly, the dreaded 'double dink' echoes through your ears. 'Dink dink.' The rim then the base. You try again. 'Dink dink'. The cup mocks you from its side. Rolling lazily in that half circle anti-victory lap on the beer soaked ply-wood. Your grab at it again, but your flips are futile. 'Dink dink.' The more people yell, the worse you get. 'Dink dink.' You try a new spot on the table, but it's not the spot on the table. It's you. You've got AFS, Askew Flipping Syndrome.
Before you can grab for the cup for one last pathetic attempt at rescuing your self respect, the other team wins. Suddenly, your Girlfriend/Boyfriend and best friend turn on you. You go from being the person they go to with their problems to being treated like you kicked their three-legged dog as it was helping a blind guy pick out his socks.
'Pretty sweet man. Pri-T-Sweet!'
Insults start flying at you. Not only are your flip-cup credentials discredited; all of a sudden it gets personal. Your significant other starts questioning your sexual techniques in front the entire party 'and what's with that counter clockwise swirl at the end, are you getting your sex tips from Seinfeld?' He/She yells. Your hygiene gets attacked from left field, 'Don't you know what a cue tip is for.' The colon/perfume you have worn for your entire relationship suddenly becomes a topic for public ridicule 'And who wears CK1 anymore. What is this, 7th grade?' Even the way you pronounce 'Specifically' isn't safe (pacifically: yeah, that sounds right). As you slink away from the table, you start to think about where to transfer, and you realize that Survivor Flip Cup can get dangerously personal.