Beer Pong and Jersey Girls
I kicked off my NYC summer this weekend like any other red-blooded New Yorker that doesn’t have the scratch to go to The Hamptons...I went to the Jersey Shore. A friend of a friend was having his annual Memorial Weekend BBQ at his family’s place in Belmar and I decided to attend as I usually do when I’m in the tri-state area for the first weekend of the summer.
If you know anyone that’s 18-34 years old from New Jersey then you probably know by now that beer pong is the official game of the Garden State. I’m dead serious, they take this shit seriously in Jersey. A guy at the party was actually bragging that he has a “regulation” nine foot table and “official” beer pong plastic cups complete with his own logo, which he uses for his annual 32-team beer pong tournament (coming later this summer...stay tuned because I’m going).
When I asked if I needed to bring anything to the party, my friend told to bring ping pong balls (an integral part of any house party in New Jersey). Five minutes later I get a call back from him because he forgot to tell me to “get the ping pong balls with three stars on them.” I wish I was joking about this...like there’s a fucking difference from brand to brand of ping pong balls. These are the things that guys in New Jersey worry about, getting the right ping pong balls and having logoed plastic cups for their annual beer pong tournament. And they wonder why Jersey gets a bad rap.
After a long afternoon of beer pong accompanied by the music of Bruce Springsteen (a.k.a Jersey Jesus) and Bon Jovi - it wouldn’t be a weekend on the shore if you didn’t hear “Living on a Prayer” at least ten times - my buddies and I head out to Bar Anticipation (“Bar A” if you’re a local). Which begs the question, “what exactly are you anticipating?” Maybe the results of your next STD test after you hook up with one of the Jersey whores at this bar? Or maybe you're anticipating the moment when the slut you’re talking to pauses for a millisecond before rattling off another five run-on sentences about her pathetic central New Jersey existence. Whatever it might be, after about an hour at this place I was reminded why I only go to the shore about once a year.
So here I am, a good 20 beers into the evening talking to a girl from “fuck-if-I-know” New Jersey and wanting to shoot myself in the face. This girl is a spot-on ringer for the quintessential “Jersey slut.” She’s rocking the pink glossy lipstick and caked on purple eye shadow with three piercings in each ear (two studs and the obligatory overly-large hoop earring) look. As if this isn’t enough, she’s got a green bikini top on under a black shoulderless shirt that has these silver, washer-like holes in them, which have left some interesting tan lines from a full day in the sun. The best part of our conversation was when she started telling me about all the “white trash” that was at the bar she was at earlier in the evening. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud.
I know you’re thinking “easy half points,” and you’re right, but instead of starting off my summer with a half-point Jersey slut lay-up (see the NYC Hook-Up Fantasy Game post), I decided to bow out of the conversation and grab a few slices before passing out in the back of my SUV (as the floors of my friend’s house were already packed with random passed out people).
As the early morning sun shone through my tinted windows on Sunday morning, I couldn’t help but think how much happier I was waking up next to my duffle bag than that make-up beast with the nasally Jersey accent I was talking to the night before. Why do I ever leave Manhattan?
If you know anyone that’s 18-34 years old from New Jersey then you probably know by now that beer pong is the official game of the Garden State. I’m dead serious, they take this shit seriously in Jersey. A guy at the party was actually bragging that he has a “regulation” nine foot table and “official” beer pong plastic cups complete with his own logo, which he uses for his annual 32-team beer pong tournament (coming later this summer...stay tuned because I’m going).
When I asked if I needed to bring anything to the party, my friend told to bring ping pong balls (an integral part of any house party in New Jersey). Five minutes later I get a call back from him because he forgot to tell me to “get the ping pong balls with three stars on them.” I wish I was joking about this...like there’s a fucking difference from brand to brand of ping pong balls. These are the things that guys in New Jersey worry about, getting the right ping pong balls and having logoed plastic cups for their annual beer pong tournament. And they wonder why Jersey gets a bad rap.
After a long afternoon of beer pong accompanied by the music of Bruce Springsteen (a.k.a Jersey Jesus) and Bon Jovi - it wouldn’t be a weekend on the shore if you didn’t hear “Living on a Prayer” at least ten times - my buddies and I head out to Bar Anticipation (“Bar A” if you’re a local). Which begs the question, “what exactly are you anticipating?” Maybe the results of your next STD test after you hook up with one of the Jersey whores at this bar? Or maybe you're anticipating the moment when the slut you’re talking to pauses for a millisecond before rattling off another five run-on sentences about her pathetic central New Jersey existence. Whatever it might be, after about an hour at this place I was reminded why I only go to the shore about once a year.
So here I am, a good 20 beers into the evening talking to a girl from “fuck-if-I-know” New Jersey and wanting to shoot myself in the face. This girl is a spot-on ringer for the quintessential “Jersey slut.” She’s rocking the pink glossy lipstick and caked on purple eye shadow with three piercings in each ear (two studs and the obligatory overly-large hoop earring) look. As if this isn’t enough, she’s got a green bikini top on under a black shoulderless shirt that has these silver, washer-like holes in them, which have left some interesting tan lines from a full day in the sun. The best part of our conversation was when she started telling me about all the “white trash” that was at the bar she was at earlier in the evening. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud.
I know you’re thinking “easy half points,” and you’re right, but instead of starting off my summer with a half-point Jersey slut lay-up (see the NYC Hook-Up Fantasy Game post), I decided to bow out of the conversation and grab a few slices before passing out in the back of my SUV (as the floors of my friend’s house were already packed with random passed out people).
As the early morning sun shone through my tinted windows on Sunday morning, I couldn’t help but think how much happier I was waking up next to my duffle bag than that make-up beast with the nasally Jersey accent I was talking to the night before. Why do I ever leave Manhattan?
posted by NYC Drunk Guy at 10:08 PM
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