Five College Football Bowl Games That Need New Names

Every year between the end of the college football season and the national championship game we’re forced to endure a series of overly-sponsored match-ups by slightly-better-than-average football squads.  They are given a shot at eternal glory by conquering opponents in bowl games whose names leave even the most experienced commentators tongue tied.  So, whether we’re fans of the sport, fans of a team in the game, or someone who happens to be watching television over this holiday season, bowl games like the “Franklin American Mortgage Music City Bowl” often leave us with an overwhelming sense of confusion as to why teams are playing and who is watching.  Here are five bowl games whose names stand out as horribly mis-matched with the teams competing in them:

From Wildkittens to Wildcougars: A GIF Journey from Freshman to Senior Year at Northwestern

Dear Class of 2017,

Three short years ago the class of 2014 shuffled at the pace of a dehydrated desert tortoise because everyone’s parents felt the need to take photos every five steps marched through the arch and commenced the drunk, sweaty adventure that was Wildcat Welcome 2010. In a few weeks, we’re really looking forward to sitting on our front porches, drinking beer that isn’t Busch Light, and watching you wander aimlessly as you try to find that awesome party near the corner of Maple and Simpson.

What Your Favorite (Cheap, Shitty) Beer Says About You

If you’re drinking Old Style, then chances are you’re either too old to operate a computer, or just got ejected from a Cubs game. Either way, this isn’t the blog for you.

It’s that magical time of the year again in Evanston: early March. Nobody has seen the sun in three months, finals are rapidly approaching as all of your friends at other schools gear up for spring break, and it’s so cold that Morty has moved his office to the steam tunnels.

What differentiates March from the rest of winter quarter, you may ask? Baseless hope that spring is right around the corner. Kinda like that scene in Batman where Bane is all like “Yo, this prison is the fucking TITS because being able to see the sun makes bitches go CRAZY.”

The Perfect Shower Beer Playlist

It’s a Wednesday night, you got a 31 on your midterm, and you just remembered that your landlord pays your water bill. Sounds like it’s time for a shower beer! If you haven’t been introduced to the joys of a cold beer in a hot, steamy shower yet, have no fear! I’ll walk you through it. But before you get all lathered up, there are three things you’ll need:

1. Beer. Although shot gunning a can of Busch Light may be a great way to impress the ladiez, it isn’t a shower beer. Try something that doesn’t taste like piss water.

2. A place to put your beer to keep it shampoo-free.

Holds your beer, so you don’t have to!

3. This playlist*

LMFAO – Sexy And I Know It

Who doesn’t feel sexy dripping wet and slightly buzzed? It’s time to DANCE!**

Adele – Someone Like You

Use any excuse to belt this song at the top of your lungs. Plus, the acoustics in the bathroom are pretty great

OutKast – Hey Ya

Throwbacks are 259% better while drunk. So are emotional rollercoasters brought on by listening to this immediately after Adele.

Taylor Swift – We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together

Remember that emotional rollercoaster I was talking about?

Macklemore – Thrift Shop

So I’m a little obsessed with this song right now (who isn’t?) and it gives me an excuse to practice my sexy bass singing voice (I don’t care if biology says girls can’t sing that low, someday I will sing bass!)

Miley Cyrus – Party in the USA

No playlist is complete without a song about America. And this one is just so damn catchy…

Rose Royce – Car Wash

Car wash, face wash…same thing

Katy Perry – Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.)

The perfect combination of funny and sexy: you can sing the words you know and dance to the ones you don’t.

Carly Rae Jepsen – Call Me Maybe

Everyone else may be sick of this song, but I know all the words, and I love singing it in the shower. Pro tip: beer bottles make excellent microphones.

The Police – Roxanne

You know the game where half the room drinks every time they say “Roxanne” and the other half drinks whenever they say “put on the red light”? This is the same, except you are both teams. If you haven’t finished your beer yet (it’s OK if it’s your second…or fourth), bottoms up!

That’s it! Now go grab a PBR and some coconut body wash.

-Tabitha McHunter

*This is by no means a good combination of songs and should not be taken as such

**Sherman Ave is not responsible for any injuries incurred while dancing in the shower.

Meet Northwestern’s New Director of Sustainability

The man below is Rob Whittier.

Dude’s hotter than a melting iceberg.

Not only a beautiful specimen of a man, Rob “Gorgeous as Fuck” Whittier is also hellbent on making this campus as green as possible, no matter how many empty cans of Busch Light he has to recycle with those rippling muscles or carbons he has to neutralize with that stunning smile.

Now, we could have put in the time and effort to write up an article detailing his sexxxy exploits reducing Northwestern’s energy consumption and whatnot, but it was much easier and enjoyable to just meme his ass during our lunch break.

Like my love for you, plastics are forever

Or by hemp-scented candlelight.

And then I’d like to bag you.

Courtesy of Gwyneth Effingmouth

Another G-Eff’s masterpiece

I feel so safe in your arms. And in your carbon-neutral house.

Many thanks to Simba Ng and for the tipoff. Feel free to send all submissions of your own Rob Whittier memes to shermanave1@gmail.com, which shall be promptly displayed on our fancy-shmancy Facebook page.

An Open Letter to my Unborn Grandson Explaining the Sport of Football

Dear Unborn Grandson,

Still waiting for the Houston Texans’ upcoming “Divisional Round Dubstep.”

If you are reading this now, two things must have happened. Apparently, a) I have lived like I died, drunkenly paddling a canoe in the buff down the Chicago River, and b) President Malia Ann Obama has outlawed the sport of football in our once-proud United States of America. Luckily for you, I predicted that such travesties would happen — mostly because canuding through the poisonous sludge that is the Chicago River while belligerently intoxicated can have adverse effects on your health — but also because the sport of football was pretty damn dangerous. What follows is all the important knowledge you will ever need to know in order to preserve the memory and history of the sport of football and ensure that you never ever fall prey to the allure of its metrosexual European cousin.

You see, Unborn Grandson, football was the greatest sport ever invented. The perfect combination of brawn and strategy and cheerleaders. Good God, don’t ever let us forget the cheerleaders.

Speaking of God, Yahweh fucking loved football. Just fucking loved it. Loved the sport so much that members of both teams would pray to God, asking for strength, fortitude, a sturdy offensive line, and a guaranteed contract plus incentives. God rewarded good Christians who couldn’t throw a spiral with an impregnable defense, while punishing other franchises with the likes of Cade McNown and Rex Grossman.

God loved football because football fucking ruled. In America, pro football was more popular than if Justin Bieber and cholesterol teamed up with all other major sports combined. No other game combined savage violence with cunning tactics and celebration dances quite like it. The game induced grown men in Philadelphia to throw D-batteries at Santa Claus, wear slices of cheese on their heads as they froze their asses off in Wisconsin, and even every once in awhile travel willingly to Detroit (this, after all, was before the city was overtaken by the mole people).

The athletes who played the game were revered as gods among men. If, you know, the gods were really great at running hitch and go routes and sending pictures of their junk to women they weren’t married to. Even the kickers, whose sole purpose in life was to — you guessed it Unborn Grandson — kick a ball still got laid, an impressive feat for somebody like Sebastian Janikowski.

Back before Google installed screens in all of our heads, we used to watch this magical sport from early Fall until February on things called “televisions,” which showed us the game and expert analysis of the game and hot women drinking shitty beer during breaks in the game. Sidenote: One day, Unborn Grandson, you might think that drinking Busch Light is “hip,” and “retro,” and “ironically hilarious,” but let me tell you, it’s not. All of your little hipster friends in the year 2063 might think it’s really cool to ironically drink your old man’s beer while you listen to Skrillex mp3’s and wear skinny jeans or some shit like that, but those kids have no idea how painful these things were at the time. Just be advised that my will specifically strips you of all rights to my Pokemon card collection if you are ever found Tebowing.

But yeah, TV was pretty great for football, and at the very end of the season, America held a special sacred holiday called Super Bowl Sunday. For one day the entire nation turned its eyes on the two best football teams of the year, who tried very hard to win the championship game and the ensuing confetti and the pretty metal trophy and the rights to wear rings the size of diamond-crusted nuva rings and to cry into Chris Berman‘s microphone. Halftime entertainment featured the very best aging classic rock stars had to offer, and even the occasional rogue booby or floating Usher.

The only thing better than professional football was college football. The college game was as passionate as Sicilians, and its governing body was as corrupt as, well, Sicilians. The rivalries were intense, and the pregames before a noon kickoff were unseemly in the best possible way.

Now, I’m sure grandpop’s alma mater has made quite a name for itself in the future, thanks to alumni like Ross Packingham (Beer Pong Olympic goldmedalist, 2024, 2028) and Chet Haze (Bratz 3D, Forrest Gump 2: Gump n Grind), but we were once a pretty respectable football institution too. We’re talking, like, the 7th most feared Big Ten team.

College football had things called “bowl games” instead of the Super Bowl to commemorate the end of its season. It worked kind of like youth soccer, where almost everybody got a trophy. I can still remember the thrill of victory when Northwestern won its first bowl game since the Rose Bowl, defeating the South Dakota State Jackrabbits in one of the most thrilling Overstock.com Money Grab Bowl in years. Those were the days. Half of the school erupted into celebration while patiently explaining to the other half what a first down was.

But I can only assume that the goddamn liberals and the socialists and the gays and the concussed NFL retirees will collude together to pressure President Malia Obama to ban the sport from America altogether in the near future. I cannot express how tragic of a mistake this will be, on par with our future decision to defrost Walt Disney or replace football with children fighting to the death for our entertainment.

Alright, Unborn Grandson, I hope this letter has reached you well. Please understand how important the sport of football was to all Americans, and don’t judge us too harshly for our cultural transgressions during the YOLO era. Things like twitter and Four Loko seemed like pretty great ideas at the time.

Well, that’s about it. I hope things are well in the future for you and your Roomba overlords. Are they still making teenage fiction about vampires? Has Christopher Nolan won an Oscar yet? How does your generation feel about the Black Keys?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a river to canude down.

Sincerely,
Evander

Sherman Ave Freshman Guide: Libations at NU

What most intoxicated freshmen look like to us.

So you’re going off to NU this fall, eh? You like to party hard? NO YOU DON’T, HIGH SCHOOLER. Now that we have that aside, let me be your tour guide around the beautiful bar that is the NU campus.

BEER
No shit you’re going to find beer. What did you expect? Prepare for keg beer, Keystone Light, Busch Light, and PBR galore. Occasionally you’ll find something else, but don’t get excited. For the love of God, please do not drink the bottles if you find any in a fridge! That shit is stealing and is uncool. Be thankful enough that NU’s frats don’t charge like asshole state schools. We’re nice like that. Don’t trash the place.

50 Shades of Purple, Chapter Two: The Battle for the Keg

“At first I was like, ‘You know, it might not be such a great idea to go skinny dipping in the Amazon with a bottle of Patron and the entire San Diego Chargers Charger Girls squad,’ but then I was just like, ‘YOLO.'”
-Morton O. Schapiro

Don’t worry, the sex scene’s coming soon.

It’s a Monday evening, and my roommates are pregaming the pregame for the Keg. I’ve had a pretty stressful day in Journalism 301, filled with lots of hard-hitting pestering of innocent yuppies reporting for my enterprise story, and it’s time for me to kick back and relax. I pop a bottle of Peach Andre and my night has begun.

“How was your interview with Ross Packingham?” asks Beverly Brooke, my roommate and consummate frenemy.

“Intriguing. There’s something secretive about him that I can’t figure out. Is it true he once had a threesome with a Theta and Willie the Wildcat in the library stacks?”

“I heard it was with Stephen Colbert and two theater majors on South Beach while Andrew Bird played in the background,” Beave answers, “But that’s just what I read once on College ACB.”

We finish off our bottles of Andre while watching Say Yes to the Dress and head over to Alpha Delta for the true pregame. The second we step into the basement, our senses are assaulted by skunked beer, bros in tank-tops, and Katy Perry. Lots of Katy Perry.

“WOOOOOOOOOO” shouts Beave as “Teenage Dream” comes on, and immediately begs a frat brother who looks suspiciously similar to an Asian Nic Cage (and almost as belligerent) to let her take a beer pong celeb shot.

I leave to get myself a drink. I pour myself some Mohawk vodka into a solo cup of Busch Light, which I affectionately dub ‘The Bobb,’ because the drink’s always a party and smells like piss.

The Alpha Delta brothers are getting rowdy. Some jackass tries to hit on me by asking which Vice President I’m most sexually attracted to, only to leave the next moment muttering to himself about the similarities between House Republicans and gonorrhea.

“KEG! KEG! KEG!” The Alpha Delta brothers shout. I down my drink and steel myself for the heinous that is to come.

————————————–

HE’S HERE! OMIGOD HE’S HERE!!!

It takes me a little while to recognize the man before my eyes, but after I adjust to the hedonism around me and get over the brief torrent of terror that shot through me as the Keg bouncer took an additional five seconds to ensure that I truly am the 25-year-old Beyonce Lovato from Anchorage, Alaska that my ID said I was, I realize that I really am beholding the elusive Ross Packingham, HERE, in the flesh, at the Keg!

Gorgeous as all hell and with a gleam in his eye, Packingham is freaking the night away with some co-ed like he’s Channing Tatum on ecstasy.

“Carla!” He shouts, “Carla Rossi! Over here!” He’s beckoning me over to join him and his slam-piece on the dance floor, and I head his way.

And then, with a tremendous blast, the door of the Keg comes crashing down. A dark, shrouded figure looms large in the doorway. For a moment everything stops, douchebags freeze mid-thrust where they were dancing, and even that one townie playing pool turns to look. The only sound is that of Ludacris’ verse on “Baby” as Mayor Tisdahl, clad in combat boots, night-vision goggles, and a James Taylor t-shirt, fully armed with a crowbar and flanked by a cadre of Evanston cops, steps into the neon light of the Coors Light sign.

“My sources tell me that there’s been underage drinking in this establishment,” Mayor Tisdahl growls, tossing the disemboweled corpse of an engineer into the stunned crowd. “You can thank this snitch here. Now I’m going to shut this motherfucker down once and for all.”

All hell breaks loose as Elizabeth Tisdahl and her police posse attack.

Intoxicated and sweaty bodies frantically jostle with one another (not unlike the Keg on a normal Monday night) as Tisdahl brutally swings her crowbar with reckless abandon at poor defenseless English majors and ETHS seniors while the cops gleefully cite students for underage drinking by the score.

“That’s for yacking on the Evanston Post Office!” screams Tisdahl as she brains a Comm Studies student with her crowbar as he tries to scuttle up a stripper pole.

“And this will teach you to holler about blowjobs on MY streets!” she adds, sucker-punching a Tri Delt like she’s Michael Barrett squaring off against A.J.

“Say blowjob one more time. I FUCKING DARE YOU!”

I can’t bear the sight of her pile-driving two foreign students through a window, and quickly duck under a booth and pray that God will save me, or at least turn off the Bieber that’s still playing if I am to be summarily executed by Mayor Tisdahl in this den of debauchery.

The Keg has all but cleared out as I cower in fear, watching Tisdahl and her cops methodically pour big cups of Bud Light and handles of Svedka and Wild Turkey all over the Keg’s walls and floors.

Tisdahl shoulders her crowbar and lights a cigarette. Turning with a menacing gait, she addresses the few remaining students.

“Based on what I see here, I think that the Keg has some grave public safety concerns. I’m revoking the Keg’s license,” she flips her cigarette onto the booze-soaked floor, “Permanently.”

The flames erupt immediately, burning away years of sin and memories. Students scream, and Tisdahl laughs, but just as she turns to leave a gallant figure, wearing nothing but an enormous purple cape, bursts through the Keg’s window riding on the back of a dashing wildcat.

“MORTY SCHAPIRO!” everybody cheers as the lionhearted president rushes to their defense.

His body is lithe and stately, glistening in the fiery inferno as his beard bristles with the white-hot intensity of a hundred thousand Pat Fitzgeralds.

“Oh no you don’t, Tisdahl!” cries Morty, slapping the Mayor back with his massive appendage. More cheers from the students. Morty rips off a stripper pole to serve as his quarterstaff (he already has a full staff down below).

“I’m going to give you the Chet Haze treatment tonight, baby,” shouts Morty. “You’ll be white and purple when I’m done with you.”

Then Morty sets to work, fighting off cops left and right with the help of his trusty wildcat. Those police officers who are too foolish not to run away suffer the awful fate of his beard, and Morty and his steed finish them off faster than the NCAA finishing off Northwestern’s March Madness dreams.

Yet somehow in all the confusion, Mayor Tisdahl managed to escape, cursing Morty and swearing that her revenge is nigh. Few seemed to care, however, as Morty ripped open a fire hydrant with his bare hands, soused the Keg’s raging flames, and turned the club into an all-night slip-and-slide.

“Come here,” a voice says gruffly. I turn with shock and look at the man gripping my hand. It’s Packingham. “This way.”

He leads me to the Popcorn machine, raps it three times with his knuckles, opens up the top, and helps me inside. “Follow me,” Ross says, pushing a button and revealing a secret passageway that travels out of the popcorn machine and leads to a mysterious tunnel. I follow, obediently, trusting Ross completely.

“I hereby declare the Keg re-instated!” bellows the victorious, and still mostly-nude, Morty. “I wish the Keg luck with their newly instated Lifetime License to Rage!”

I can barely hear the cheers as I go deeper and deeper down the tunnel, guided only by the mysterious Ross Packingham.

To be continued

Chapter one of 50 Shades of Purple can be found HERE.

50 Shades of Purple, Chapter One

For Morty, the master of my universe

I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair — it just won’t behave, and damn that Beverly Brooke for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. Ugh. FML. I’m suuuuch a Medilldo.

I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. That’s what she said. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired girl with blue eyes too big for her face staring back at me, and give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in a ponytail and hope that I look semi presentable.

Beave is my roommate, and she has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she’d arranged to do, with some mega-brill-brill engineer I’ve never heard of, for The Daily. So I have volunteered. I have finals to complain about, one 500-word article to fabricate, but no — today I have to walk all the way from Pi Phi all the way up to fucking Slivka in order to meet this enigmatic nerd. As an exceptional engineer and son of major Northwestern benefactors, his time is extraordinarily precious — much more precious than mine — but he has granted Beave an interview. A real coup, she tells me. Damn her extra-curricular activities. What is ASG anyways?

“Does, like, vodka and gatorade get rid of the flu?” Beverly asks.

“Sure it does. It’s a disinfectant,” I answer.

Gathering my Steve Madden bag, I smile at her and head out the door. She’ll make an exceptional journalist for Chillicothe Times-Bulletin one day. She’s got talent.

———————————————————

I knock on the door in Slivka. It slowly opens as a tremendous cloud of weed-smoke funnels out.

“Mr. Packingham is out at the moment,” says my interviewee’s roommate, a man who presumably served two years in the Singapore army and is double-majoring in chemistry and K-Pop Studies. “But feel free to come in.”

I check out Packingham’s room. It looks like a cross between an adolescent’s wet dream and Charlie Sheen’s Tuesday morning. Kate Upton and Pippa Middleton adorn walls streaked with what I can only assume is Dmitri vodka and CVS Gold Brand grape soda. An exotic aroma hits my nose, an exquisite fusion of BK, Busch Light, and man musk. Must be a Comm major. I think I need to sit down.

And then, a man enters.

“Excuse me. I’m looking for a Beave. Have you seen one?”

Oh God. Packingham’s a tool. He’s smiling like a Freshman who just got into The Keg.

“Um. Actually–” I mutter. But such a handsome tool.

“Miss Brooke is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Packingham.” Eyes like Bill Murray. Complexion like Drake. Body like John Shurna. And, most importantly, a beard like Morty’s.

“And you are?” His voice is warm, possibly amused, definitely slurred a bit. I can’t help but notice the portable beer pong table near his bed.

“Carla Rossi. I’m studying magazine journalism with Beave, um… Miss Brooke in Medill.”

“I see,” he says simply. I can’t help but notice he’s wearing a Sig Nu hoodie. That’s… unexpected.

“Would you like to sit?” He waves me toward a green bean bag chair prominently featuring several suspicious stains.

“I have some questions for you,” I say, catching him looking down my shirt.

“I though you might Carla,” he deadpans.

“Well, let’s get started. I’d like to know what you make of allegations that your father’s donations are the reason Northwestern starts so ungodly late in the calendar year.”

“Bullshit,” Packingham replies.

“Okay, how about suggestions that you once banged Mayor Tisdahl on the roof of Swift?” I try.

“I wish,” the swashbuckling sultan of swag replies.

“Do you have any hobbies?” Butter them up with some puff questions. Medill’s taught me well.

“You know, the usual. Chill with my bros. Drunken Sporcle. Skinny dipping in Lake Michigan with my biddies. Hey Carla, did you know that I’m the reason Selena Gomez decided against becoming a Wildcat? Let’s just say she’s no big fan of the hot cookie bar, if you know what I mean. How about you?”

“Me!?” I ask, surprised. “I mostly complain about how sketch the el is on my way to my internship. I just love the city.”

He smiles, seeming to sense something flutter inside me. Shit! Could he possibly have realized that I can name all 151 original Pokémon in alphabetical order? I thought I had kept that hidden since the Kappa rush debacle of 2011.

“Fine. Last question. Can you comment on the prevailing rumors that you are the man responsible for the invention of the fucksaw—”

“I can’t comment on pending litigation,” he cuts me off, quicker than I awkwardly end conversations on Sheridan.

“Dude, want to play the National Treasure 2 drinking game?” His roommate interrupts.

“Yes, yes I do,” he answers. “Carla,” he says as a farewell.

“Ross,” I reply. And the door, Adele poster and all, comes to a close.

May Heinous Breakdown: Busch Light Division

Yesterday, we provided our coked-out fans desperate for Rogger Rabbit-themed porn loyal readers with the first May Heinous preview, a rundown of the competitive Pabst Blue Ribbon Division. Tonight we continue our coverage of the 32-team beer pong tournament with our preview of the historical figures within the Busch Light Division vying for the prestigious Morty Schapiro cup. Submissions for the official Sherman Ave May Heinous pool are open until Sunday, May 6th, and can be downloaded HERE before submitting completed brackets to shermanave1@gmail.com.

Somehow managed to graduate despite being drunk for most of her undergraduate years.

Helen Keller and Sun-Tzu
Helen Keller, bless her soul, was never one to take alcohol as a friend. It’s no surprise given drinking is only fun if you can see or hear the debauchery that occurring around you. So I would anticipate her be a supreme lightweight and either pass her drinks off to the little guy or blackout before we’re done. Considering as she’s already functionally “blacked out,” this shouldn’t take too long, but without most of her senses, Keller has little left to lose. While much has been made of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, far less scholarship has been devoted to Sunny’s earlier work, The Art of Pong. The treatise, hastily scrawled on cocktail napkins and the foreheads of Tzu’s vanquished foes, is considered by many Fratstars as the definitive piece on beer pong strategies and tactics at the time, and is still read for its insight, including the oft-repeated idiom “知己知彼，百戰不殆。”
Strengths: Strategy, Tactics, Parables
Weaknesses: Deaf, blind, already blackout
First-Round Opponents: Hammurabi and John Audubon
Team Cohesiveness: 3.7/10
–Evander Jones and Porky Saltstick

Alone. Yet again.

Hammurabi and John James Audubon
Famed ornithologist, meet mediocre leader in Civilization IV. Hammurabi literally codified the rules of beer pong in stone, promulgating specific laws that governed rollbacks, overtime, re-racks, and punishing all transgressors with Sköl-induced death. Audubon, meanwhile, identified 25 new species of birds and a number of new sub-species, presumably to distract himself from his violent masturbation addiction. Expect Hammurabi to pursue a “Cup for Cup” strategy in the Ragin’ Mesopotamian’s quest to defeat Keller and Tzu.
Strengths: Rule of law, beards
Weaknesses: 1/2 of their team devoted his entire life to drawing pictures of pigeons.
First-Round Opponents: Helen Keller and Sun-Tzu
Team Cohesiveness: 1/10
–Evander Jones

She really put the Dick in Dickensian

William Henry Harrison and Queen Victoria
Old Willy, as his friends and doctors called him, was the 9th president of the US. And I do mean old. Pretty sure this dude was about 185 or so (so meaning 68) when elected, and presidency did not agree with him.  And as far as beer pong skills go… have you ever watched your grandfather try to take his medication? Takes him about 6 tries to successfully get all of those little pills in his mouth. Now imagine that hot mess making an attempt at ping pong ball to cup.  Vicky, on the other hand, has the tenacity of a sea turtle. Not only did she rule the United Kingdom for 63 years, but she also managed to have 9 kids without going batshit cray. Endurance, patience, and a vagina are all qualities of an excellent BP player.

The weak American and the powerful Brit. A new sitcom on fox or the best drinking duo this side of the frat quads? Only time will tell.
Strengths: Child-bearing, defeating Indians
Weaknesses: Pneumonia, waning empire
Team Cohesiveness: 6.5/10
First-Round Opponents: Friedrich Nietzsche and Genghis Khan
–Parrty Cat

Can we just go get baked instead?

Friedrich Nietzsche and Genghis Khan
Nietzsche was a smart chap, but he was no frat bro. His downfall will be his handlebar mustache, and/or the fact that he has probably never even heard of the game. On the flipside, he IS German, and if there is one thing the Germans are especially good at, it’s drinking impressively. Genghis Khan, on the other hand, is a scary motherfucker. The only moment of weakness he showed in his entire life was his death, the reason for which is still uncertain to this day. I personally like the theory that one of his thousands of biddies hid a small pair of pliers inside her lady cave, which meant that when he…well you know. Long story short: Khan is the ultimate warrior, and should have no trouble tearing shit up in a beer pong game.
Strengths: Brute strength, high tolerance
Weaknesses: Depression, walls
Team cohesiveness: 8/10
First-Round Opponents: William Henry Harrison and Queen Victoria
–Parrty Cat

Shit, they’re heating up.

Malcolm X and Mao Zedong
Not to be confused with Denzel Washington, Malcom X is credited with boosting African American pride during the tumultuous Civil Rights era in the United States. His excellent rhetorical skills could really take a beer pong game in a number of directions. Mao Zedong, founder of the People’s Republic of China and a Communist revolutionary, is quite the interesting counterpart for Malcolm X. He kind of reminds us of that father figure who swears he has your best interests at heart, but also may publicly beat you to death if you don’t share your toys. We’re also not especially certain about Mao’s familiarity with the game.
Strengths: Team morale, self-image
Weaknesses: Temper, poor strategy
Team Cohesiveness: 3/10
First-Round Opponents: Earl Grey and Boris Yeltsin
-Marietta Von Festering

One day my name will be FAMOUS!

Earl Grey and Boris Yeltsin
Former British Prime Minister Earl Grey (or more specifically, Charles the 2nd Early Grey) hails from the prominent Grey family in Northumberland, England (aka no one’s ever actually heard of this fucker, but they named a tea after him). If you’re a pretentious dick then you know exactly what type of tea makes an Earl Grey blend, and maybe you even know why it was named after this Charles fellow. Boris Yeltsin, who was the First President of the Russian Federation, is known best for his grand plans to transform Russia’s socialist economy into a free market economy – a skill which is quite applicate to beer pong. He’s used to playing with vodka, so to him, drinking a six-pack of Natty Light is the equivalent of shotgunning a LaCroix.
Strengths: Socioeconomic reform, high tolerance (although Grey’s tolerance is presumably high only for tea)
Weaknesses: Sweating, being remembered for relationship with a beverage
Team Cohesiveness: 5.2/10
First-Round Opponents: Malcolm X and Mao Zedong
-Marrietta Von Festering

I see what you’re trying to do there.

J. Edgar Hoover and Cleopatra
Forget his 50-year stint with the FBI and his power to destroy naval spies – Hoover’s pong skills will blow everyone out of the water. After all, if a man can keep the plans of the most powerful nation in the world, his activities as a Freemason, and his cross-dressing habits under wraps, chances are he can throw a little plastic ball into a solo cup. Cleopatra, on the other hand, is woman enough for both of them. This Ancient Egyptian Queen will make up for what she lacks in beer drinking ability (I’m pretty sure she was too sexy to drink this figure-ruining beverage) with an evil-queen sex appeal and ridiculous charisma. That hot bitch will certainly throw off the other team while J. Edgar does serious work sinking cups/daydreaming about his limitless potential as Shirley Temple.
Strengths: Power-tripping, eye make-up
Weaknesses: Insecurity, asps
Team Cohesiveness: 9/10
First-Round Opponents: General George A. Custer and Neville Chamberlain
–Gwyneth Effingmouth

Few know that Custer’s last stand actually happened at the basement of Sig Ep, when Crazy Horse wiped his ass on the pong table.

General George A. Custer and Neville Chamberlain
General Custer has many reasons to drink. His moplike mustache and goth button-up shirt lend him an undesirable serial rapist quality.  He is also best known by the systematic ass-kicking he endured at the hands of the Lakota tribe at Little Bighorn.  My guess is that what Custer lacks in accuracy, he’ll make up for in alcohol consumption.  Neville Chamberlain, Prime Minister of England during the rise of Hitler and the beginning of World War II, is known for pursuing a policy of appeasement, or “ass-kissing,” towards Nazi Germany. What Chamberlain lacks in testicles he makes up for in, well, nothing, because he’s probably the type of drunk who knocks back a couple of aged whiskey shots and then cries into the phone to his mother about his wish to return to the golden days of his childhood.
Strengths:  High rank, sharing first names with notable Gryffindors
Weaknesses:  Lack of testicles, lack of scalp
Team Cohesiveness: 5/10
First-Round Opponents: J. Edgar Hoover and Cleopatra
–Gwyneth Effingmouth