May 30th, 2003


When Your Nipple Resembles A Gangsta Rapper.


So my ex-roommate Tiger finally asked his girlfriend Tang to marry him last weekend. I call him Tiger, not because of the rousing Survivor anthem, but because he will forever be infamous for fooling House of Blues into believing he was Tiger Woods and getting them to comp dinner and drinks for him and 20 other people.

Tiger lived with me for three years and was the perfect roommate, as is any management consultant who’s only home two to six days a month. He also was the first person I’ve ever heard call another guy a “ fucking whore.” Until then, that term was reserved solely for loose women and your mom. Of course the guy he was calling a fucking whore was myself. Strangely, it happened to be on the night I first met my girlfriend. I remember almost pissing my pants because I was laughing so damn hard… and severely intoxicated. It's been one of my favorite words ever since, as Chuck would attest.


So you know who was in town the past week? Another ex-roommate, T.

As you long-term readers may have noticed – or not – my partying days have dwindled mightily since the dude left for the civet cat-eating land of Hong Kong. By now I’ve grown into a wiser, more mature adult male with greater responsibilities and more sophisticated hair care products. (I can vouch for the hair care product part, but everything else in that sentence is subject to debate and severe ridicule.)

T himself has changed. He now no longer views Asia as a giant playground, but as a giant land mass filled with angry old Chinese men who make his job difficult. Like me, he also has cut down on his dosage of happy drunkenings. The once-ferocious party animal in him has died, it seems, and is probably being served as a meal right now in the Guangdong province.

What’s changed? Well for one thing, his relationship with his girlfriend has been pretty serious for many moons. Serious girlfriends tend to stick a sharp straw into your neck and suck the crazy fun right out of you. In fact, when we finally met up last Friday afternoon, we sat around chatting about passive income opportunities while sipping green tea. Not a pretty picture, especially when a cold wind hit and caused T's gigantic nipples to harden.


In regards to T’s nipples, I’d like to end this entry by clearing up the mistaken notion that they are silver dollar-sized. This came from a quip I made long, long ago when I described them as resembling silver dollar pancakes. But after time, people came to incorrectly assume I was referring to the currency. Geney Boy was especially fond of the whole silver dollar/nipple comparison, much to T’s chagrin.

One day, when T and Geney Boy were driving back from Vegas, T decided to dispel this rumor once and for all. He pulled out a silver dollar coin and held it next to his left teat for Geney Boy to see. The silver dollar was indeed much larger. If anything, T argued, his areola was closer in size to a 50-cent piece.

But calling them 50-cent nipples might only lead to more confusion, causing people to think his sucklings resemble the rapper. Next thing you know his nipples will have their own posses and recording contracts with Shady/Aftermath. Hijinks ensue.

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