Last night I met up with some friends at Tigin, a cozy, authentic Irish Pub in Stamford, CT. By the time I arrived, they had already been drinking for a few hours and were therefore in a relatively uninhibited state. I ordered a Black & Tan, sat down at the table, and began chatting away with the person sitting next to me. Roughly 30 seconds into our conversation, I noticed that two friends sitting at the other end of the table – one male, one female – had engaged in what appeared to be some sort of prehistoric hominid mating ritual: the female would hold up both of her hands and, in one smooth, congruent motion, reach out and place the tips of her index fingers on or near the man’s nipples. “What the crap are you two doing?” I inquired. “Oh, just playing a round of Nipple Golf”, the female replied. I sat there, nonplussed, trying to determine if I had really just heard what I thought I heard. “Nipple Golf?” I queried. “What the fuck is Nipple Golf?” They patiently explained. I listened, enraptured, and took copious mental notes, thus allowing me to present you, my valued readers, with the first official rule set for one of the most moronically ridiculous yet indubitably entertaining games every created by mammals capable of perfunctory cognition…
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