I was once asked by a friend, “do you really wanna talk about nipples?” Um, yeah. I do. They’re prevalent. Sorry if I’m a little weird and have a bizarre train of thought. (You were weird enough to tell me that you have oddly perky man nipples, to which I did not question the necessity of this fact, so you can totally spare me the doubt, FRIEND.) Nips: they’re very real.
At State Parks my name badge really should read Ranger Dick (as cool as Danger Ranger is…). I basically get paid $10 an hour to be the most cynical, sarcastic asshole on the planet. It’s a freakin awesome job. It’s amazing how much power instantly falls into your hands the second you wear a fancy button-up khaki shirt with official patches… it’s even more amazing how quickly power goes to my head. To jump the Salmon Falls bridge leaves the jumper with a hefty fine (and jail time for attempted suicide if the Sheriff comes…). Nothing brings me more pleasure than sneaking up on some cocky kid about to take the plunge into the water and mutter under my breath “man, that looks high,” as I pretend to write up a ticket. Instant freak out when they see the patches. Followed by instant cooperation.
Anyways, Ranger Dick… I’m laughing with my coworker: Ranger Asshole. We’re watching the Running of the Moobs as overweight male boaters jog up the hill and pant, wet hair clinging to their brows. At this point we notice… him… and his…
Extremely inflamed nipples.
I’ve never seen redder tatas. We then created the Nip Scale: stasis > perky > dagger > and angry. I tell you… those were ANGRY nipples. You could have drawn eyebrows and a mouth, folks would have been scared.
Lesson: keep your nips happy, no one likes an angry titty. In the words of my friend Tokes: “I am not going to suckle that.”