An Open Letter From Teddy to Mr. Feeble

Mr Feeble,
I write you this letter to thank you for your assistance in the start of my new love-drenched, very non-casual sex life. It began, as most good stories do, in the kitchen, when Ryan was cooking his usual rabbit food and Yuri, the Slovakian, was asking Ryan about his T-shirt.

"What is this squad you prefer is?" Yuri said.

"Oh, no, no, no, my Eastern European friend," Ryan replied. "You are mistaken. This FC symbol on my shirt does not mean Football Club. It means Flip Cup."

"And what is this flip cup you prefer is?"

With that, Ryan told the great story of his friend Mr. Feeble, who, in 2006, was Grandmaster Champion of the Great American Flip Cup Championship, held, obviously, in Cleveland, Ohio, because where else? As you know, Ryan can sometimes tell a story very commonplace, no big deal, and end the thing before it even began. Other times, however, he gets his hands into it, raises his voice, uses local children and produce as props, and weaves hour long descriptions of bars and babies and bathrooms. This was one of the grand stories, and, by the time it was over, the entire city of Cromwell was standing in the kitchen, listening, awestruck, pumped up beyond understanding, wanting nothing more than to compete in our very own FC Tournament. And thus it began: The International Beerfest of Bannockburn, New Zealand.

The Germans fared well, with their flare for strange guttoral shit-talking and last minute, shady backpacker additions to their team. The Georgians (Republic of) showed an amazing propensity for speed ping-pong and pre-festivities bread making. The Kiwis (my team; Debs and I) won the cigarette rolling competition, hands down, but barely placed in anything else, as we had trouble taking our eyes off each other. The Scots took the chugging and the horseshoes and the nobody-can-understand-anything-you-say competitions. The Canadians spent too much of their time making clear their distinctions from the Americans, and not enough time drinking. The Americans themselves excelled in nothing other than coming up with game after game for everybody to play. The French won a large trophy for their complete refusal to play. The British (a team that included Ryan, as James, captian of team Brittain, needed a player and declared Ryan the least American American present) passed out halfway through, after running around and clawing at bird callers somewhere in the vineyard. And it was the Israelis who won, mostly based on their ability to chug a beer without ever lifting the glass off the table.

But the real winner was Debs and I, as we found, sometime during the night, that each of us was much more attractive than the other had thought. And with a warm bed in my tent, well, Mr. Feeble, I know I don't have to go on any further. Tommorow we're going to see Warbirds Over Wanaka, and I'm going to pack a lunch for my new lady. It is a fun game, this Flip Cup of yours, but what Debs and I have goes way beyond fun, and for that I wanted to thank you.

Cheers,
Teddy