It’s a little like trying to pin a name on the first guy to spin a tall tale about Paul Bunyan-these diversions are downright folkloric in their spread, Johnny Appleseeded across each generation by a network of older siblings, cooler cousins and freshman-year roommates. And whichever poor bastard draws the fourth and final king? That poor bastard is required to drink it.Īs ubiquitous as the game is, attempting to trace the origins of Kings, or any drinking game for that matter, is frustrating. No matter where you’re playing, one sinister directive seems to hold fast across the board: Upon drawing a king, you’re required to pour a portion of whatever’s in your hand into that cup in the middle, regardless of what’s already been added. “I probably learned it from a dude with cargo pants, a fleece vest and a hemp necklace, who drove a truck and was really into how the colors of his glass bowl were changing over time.” There’s also the built-in ability to create new rules within the game, and it’s up to you to enforce them. Based on who’s in charge, you could end up crushing a Coors Light tallboy, struggling to remember track names off Surfer Rosa or flailing your limbs around like a holy roller. Each card corresponds to a different mini-game or drinking challenge, depending on who’s dictating the format, which tends to vary wildly. All you have to do is set up a cup, fan out the playing cards face down in an unbroken circle around it, equip yourself with a beer or cocktail and go. Truly one of the easiest drinking games to organize-a quick root through the junk drawer should it-it’s also equally easy to play. Still, much like the trod-upon serf who struggles under the crush of a tyrannical monarch, Kings often ends with a cold, expressionless white guy in a fly crown ruining your life.Īnd it can happen so fast. It’s so named because a deck of cards-along with booze, a liquid-holding receptacle and as many coherent participants one can raise-is all you need to play. Unlike horse racing, Kings, aka King’s Cup (aka Circle of Death, aka Ring of Fire-for fans of nuance), did not earn its regal title filling the idle time of blue-bloods. And most vitally, it requires a willingness to revel in the alcohol-fueled misfortune of others, a boutique brand of schadenfreude accessible only by those who know how it feels to chug a mug filled with equal parts shitty beer, Smirnoff Ice, Steel Reserve and warm Franzia. It demands a worthy, though not encyclopedic, knowledge of the world’s most important topics-like ‘90s television shows, cigarette brands and breakfast cereal mascots. It calls for some physical prowess, but not so much that you’re asked to stand. It’s more of a game than a sport, really, but one built around the most molecular aspects of competition-quick thinking, risk-taking, self-preservation, picking up what others are putting down. The sport called Kings, meanwhile, has about as much in common with royalty as John Goodman in King Ralph. There are people-the type of people who use “summer” as a verb-who say horse racing is the sport of kings.
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