Local Man Builds Least Structurally Sound Die Table Yet

If men are good for anything, it’s poorly constructing wooden tables to gather around shirtless, beer in hand, at 10 am on a given Saturday. These creations, frequently adorned with poorly stenciled Chicago sports logos, fraternity insignias, alcohol branding, and unique inside jokes (such as McLovin’s fake ID from the cult indie film “Superbad”), are a college-town classic.

Enter the University of Iowa’s own Jake Slater. Slater, a 20-year-old Tippie student, has done what generations of Midwestern men before him have only dreamed of: build a table that technically exists.

By his own admission, Jake never once consulted a measuring tape or level during the build. “I had a vision, some nails, and my trusty ol’ hammer,” he explained, gesturing broadly at the warped sheet of plywood hastily nailed to four uneven legs on his front lawn, “and I’m gonna be so deadass, it turned out even better than I imagined.”

The table can best be described as “janky,” with only two legs making contact with the ground at any given time. Still, the Solo cups stand and the dice bounce–what more could a guy ask for?

By mid-morning, the table had already survived its first real test: a full round of die played with a vigor that suggested both extreme confidence and a fundamental misunderstanding of physics. The sun shone, the hucking cube flew, and the table emitted a quiet but persistent creaking sound, which Jake kept reassuring everyone was proof the table was “holding up great, actually.”

His seven roommates praised Jake’s craftsmanship profusely. “Honestly, it’s kind of impressive,” one of the roommates declared, steadying his drink as the table shifted beneath it. “Like, I wouldn’t put anything important on it. Or lean on it. Or really touch it at all. But for die? Perfect.”

Observers confirmed that while the table’s surface dips noticeably toward one corner—creating what some have dubbed a “home field advantage”—gameplay has remained largely uninterrupted, aside from the occasional cup migration and one brief but spirited argument over whether the table had a “dead spot.”

In a world where men spend their time bonesmashing and visiting elusive islands, Jake dedicated himself to the selfless act of creation, and in the end, maybe that’s enough. Because while the table may not stand straight, may not stand long, and may only technically meet the legal definition of a table, it still stands—briefly, shakily, and surrounded by daydrinking friends, which, in many ways, is exactly what it was made for.