Salve for your fear, ointment for your loathing

Maybe I shouldn't have been surprised that my last entry (see below) struck a power chord with my few but tenacious readers. The comments section is bulging. Upon reading the comments I decided that I probably should've given you something a little lighter with which to jump into a May weekend. Maybe something a little more fluffy. I couldn't come up with anything fluffy, so decided on poofy.

Yes, dear friends, it is time for another discussion of my nipples.

Few have ever contradicted the poofiness of my man-nips. Most stare for a moment then decide they are uncomfortable. Because of that, few have ever come to truly know my nipples. Which is why, friends, I thought I would tell you of my nipples' pain. Yes, even mere man-bubbles have a lifetime of pain to discuss.

Let me take you back to room 616 of Laws Hall, University of Missouri, 65201. It was a gathering place of sorts. Those who could look past my rural roomie's perchant for wearing skin-tight Hanes underdrawers (and nothing else) liked to spend time there. We played video games. We drank beer. We sometimes watched pornography. It was college. There wasn't much more to do.

It was a fateful day. I had a baseball in my hand and nothing to do with it except drop it on the sensitive middle parts of a good friend.. A decade later, I still don't know why I did it. I didn't throw it. I just dropped it. It hit spot-on square. Ben writhed on the cheap tile floor. I wanted to hide, but the dorm rooms were small. And our mutal friends were already plotting his revenge.

For those who don't carry their life around in their pants, let me explain one very important thing about men. You never...ever...hit the boys. With anything. Don't throw a feather at them. And most certainly, don't drop a baseball on them.

I should've learned the lesson years before. Sweet Emily Kinney used to hit me in my boy parts once a week during second grade recess. Despite the fact I loved her for about 20 consecutive years after the infraction, it was wrong. And she likely knew that.

So why, after years of following the die-hard rule did I drop a ball on Ben's balls? I do not know. But I knew I had revenge coming.

Simple Rules of Manhood dictated that even though the infraction was beyond severe, even simple revenge could not include a retaliatory strike on my crotch. A Revenge Committee quickly convened and quickly decided that my nipples must be the target of retaliation. And a clothes pin was the weapon of choice.

The hastily drafted Resolution of Revenge read something like this:

Whereas Otis carelessly dropped a baseball on Ben's nuts, and
Whereas Otis most certainly knew that dropping a baseball on Ben's nuts is the greatest infraction of male bonding etiiquette, and
Whereas Ben has never done anything to deserve a baseball-nut-job...
Be it hereby resolved that Otis shall wear a clothes pin on his nipple for a period of 30 seconds.
Signed on this day of our Lord,
The Revenge Committee

I cannot describe the pain in any way other than this...it couldn't have hurt any more than Ben's crotch. I deserved every second of pain. The only plus-side of the entire debacle...that particlaur nipple wasn't poofy for about a day after that.

Years later, the Revenge Committee struck again. I woke up from a long night of drinking with duct tape on each nipple. We won't go into that.

A decade later, Ben survives. He works in a good job for a major American beer company. I still have poofy nipples.

Seems like he's still getting his revenge.