Like an ancient Roman emperor, I stand perched atop a wobbly chair in a forlorn basement,… Like an ancient Roman emperor, I stand perched atop a wobbly chair in a forlorn basement, holding a valuable artifact — a fluorescent orange cone with caution tape wrapped around it, the word “Betty” scrawled in thick black marker strokes and a long, 4-foot tube that extends down and out of the neon funnel.

Below me, a young man caked in sweat and ale grips the tubing and bends the end up, creating a U-shaped curve. He nods.

I crack open a can of sweet nectar — Coors Light — and slowly pour it into the funnel. I watch it cascade down the clear plastic tubing with the grace of a herd of liquid stallions. As I swish the foam, the young man positions his mouth close to the tubed apparatus.

“Ready,” he says.

I take a deep breath, mentally preparing myself for the task at hand. I gesture as to silence the crowded room and close my eyes. It is now or never; a young man’s sobriety — and his pride — are at stake.

“Lovely lady lumps,” I bellow, and in less than three seconds, the beer disappears from the funnel and tubing, the crowd erupts, and I look on in awe at the completion of one of the most proud beer-related accomplishments: Bonging a beer.

I hide my shame well, however, because I have never — and am still currently unable to — bong a beer.

When one first begins enjoying beer on a regular basis — whether it is after only one ice-cold brewski or a period where one “acquires a taste for it” — there are certain tasks one must complete to prove his beer worthiness.

They range from the mild (prowess at table games like flip cup and beer pong) to the engaging (shotgunning) to the mack daddy of them all — the beer bong.

The act of taking a thick piece of tubing into one’s mouth, hearing the “Go” word and letting a surge of beer hit the back of your throat and shoot straight down into your stomach is the pinnacle of hard-partying status. It is an efficient way to get buzzed, and its flashy nature makes it appealing to potential mates. And yet I have never been able to successfully do it.

That isn’t to say I haven’t tried. There have been countless occasions where I have faced the mighty bong in preparation of glory, only to sputter and choke as my throat rejected the intimidating force of the Natty Light trying to shove its way into my stomach.

Friends have tried to help me. “Don’t try swallowing it — just let it go in,” might be the most unhelpful piece of advice I have received. Because yes, I did try to “let it go in” but my throat closed, and I almost vomited everywhere.

“No, no, you have to open your mouth, open your throat, and it will just go down,” they insist.

No, no — I just almost vomited again, and I got the last half of that beer all over my shirt and jeans. I am shamed.

Now, my inability to bong beers is a conundrum, as I have nearly mastered the art of chugging and shotgunning. At a recent Beer Olympics event — all the glory of the real Olympics, none of the archery or badminton — I chugged a beer in almost 10 seconds, and I have a special technique for shotgunning that encourages minimal time lapse and maximal showmanship.

One would think, then, that I would be a natural at beer bonging. But alas, I am hopeless. Just the thought of standing under the holy relic of college parties and taking one to the face (er, mouth) makes me weak in the knees.

Therefore, I am going to make it my solitary goal to complete a successful beer bong by graduation — which arrives in almost one week — so I can rid my self of my Bong Anxiety. Classes? Psh, my dignity is at stake here.

So if you see me at a party and there is a bong nearby, let me have at it. I need to graduate to a new level of beer drinker.