At long last, the eggheads in Sweden have spoken! Retired pharmaceutical representative Tripp Mason, 62, of Stamford, Connecticut will finally be recognized for his achievements and contributions towards modern manhood. Yes, that’s right, the man who coined the phrase “where’s my hug?” has been granted the Nobel Prize for Worst Person. Wow!
Tripp, a self proclaimed “great guy,” is no stranger to the spotlight. He currently holds the title of Most Likely to Die Alone from his high school yearbook, but he’s already proven the haters wrong. Tripp has twelve kids from five different failed marriages! So statistically, someone will be there when he finally kicks the proverbial bucket. Take that, Lakecrest High! Go Beavers! When asked how he could have created such a disgusting and often rhetorical question that strikes fears into the hearts of women in uncomfortable situations everywhere, Tripp was modest as always.
“It was 1971. I was at this party, and this broad I liked was leaving. And I had planned on having sex with her, but then I found out she was married. And her husband was really big, like Lou Ferrigno big. So I was like, Trippster, you better think of something else. Right when she was hugging her little girlfriends goodbye, I say, ‘Where’s MY hug?’ Man, she was pissed. But if she didn’t do it she’d look like a bitch. And nobody can get mad about a hug!”
Wrong, Tripp!
Tripp’s sleazy contribution to pop culture has affected almost all of us. Whether it’s an unnecessary touch of the lower back when passing a woman in a crowded JCPenney, or forcing a hug on a female acquaintance in the conference room so you can feel her boobs against you, the ingenuity that men show continues to astound us all. Yet none have blazed a path quite like Tripp Mason.
When asked if he feels any shame for creating a phrase that gives men a socially acceptable way to coerce women into unwanted and often sweaty embraces, he took a sip of his Dr. Pepper and shrugged.
“You know, Dr. Pepper is a man. Some people online say he’s a girl doctor, but he’s a man. It’s harder for women to become doctors because the blood flows from their brains to their…”
At this point, Mr. Mason unexpectedly choked on the tab from his soda can, and died. Sad! Oh well, a posthumous award is still an award! And there’s no doubt in our collective minds that The Nobel Prize committee chose well. Rest in Peace, Tripp! Your dad’s creepiest friend, Uncle Jim, will be accepting the award on Tripp’s behalf.
