Hey, what’s up bro. I just got back from lifting. I’m wicked thirsty. Absolutely parched beyond saving. I am as dry as a lunar mare. I need some electrolytes, bro. Bro, I need some electrolytes. I am desperately hypertonic. No bro, get that efficient and reusable plastic cup away from me. I don’t care how long I’ve had to adjust my habits to my environment – begone with that cup. Bro, I need something slightly bigger for my massive and dexterous hands. My hands are hubcap large; they have their own postal codes, coordinatures. The average twelve-ounce plastic cup will disappear in the wasteland of my palm.

These hands (these instruments) are too full of vigor and strength. I need something bigger, in the 14-16 oz. range, more suited to my Herculean athletic frame. Your average plastic cup will shatter under the elephantic power of my digits; I am a human hydraulic press. I need a cup with give; something that will mold to the influence of these incredible, masculine paws. Bro, I am in dire need of a paper cup. My hydration depends on it. Wait, bro, what? These cups are intended as to-go carriers for hot drinks? The vox populi is pleading for the reduction of paper cup use? How dare they. I am a throbbing beacon of male virility. My body is a chuffing, pulsating machine: I need to fuel it, maintain it, regulate it. I need my liquids in tight, logistical order. I am the modern Tantalus. These lips can only touch reinforced paper. I cannot drink from any other cup; this is my grail. You ever seen that Indiana Jones movie bro? Remember when the guy drinks from what he thinks is the grail but then the knight says “you chose poorly” and he withers away to a lifeless husk? That’ll happen to me if I ever drink from a plastic cup.

I ran some numbers. I use two of these paper cups a day, four hundred or so a year. I probably use more. Sometimes I need to double-cup. I need the double-cup for the double-dose of ‘Rade, you dig? This body (this feat of engineering) needs to double-cup on the odd occasion, once in a new moon or blue moon or whatever.

May I empty this contoured head of mine? Bro, may I philosophize? Listen to this paradox: I will sit at the table closest to the fountains, which would allow me the most ease when refilling a regular sized cup, but I will use this paper cup so I won’t have to get up as many times, compromising the utility of my position. You’d think for an econ major I’d understand utility. It’s pretty wicked, bro. Bro.

Watch me drink out of this paper cup. You are watching me spread myself across the face of this earth, consuming, reaching like an oil spill. Can you contain me? This powder blue button-down and khaki combination certainly cannot. Watch me proliferate. Watch me violate. Watch me exploit. Watch me wither forests and drain rivers. Watch me replace the essence of the natural world with my own. I will strangle Gaia, mother goddess, to submission with my full, calloused man-hands. I am master of bodies: mine and all others. I will dominate this Earth one cup at a time.