Priya Asks Rip
Ladies, the exhibit agreed to be interviewed. Eight questions, no lawyer, no preparation he didn’t do in his own head while watching football. I asked the questions. He answered them. I have added my findings where the record required correcting. — Priya Yang
Q1. State your name, your age, and your measurement — in that order, and no rounding up.
Rip: “First name starts with a J and is common. Second name rhymes with moccasin. Age, late 60s. Size is 6 foot, weight 195, penis you already know. But for the record, in a cold shower 1.5 inch. Normal limp 1.75. Looking at pictures of Priya, it grows to about 7 inches.”
Priya: The name is a dodge and the record will show it as a dodge — he gave me a riddle where a name should be. Note also that his famous defense (“but I’m normal when I’m hard”) arrived in Question 1, three questions early. He leads with it the way other men lead with their job title.
Q2. You flew a thousand miles to be measured. Most men pay to avoid that. Walk me through the decision.
Rip: “I saw an ad for the pageant in the Huffington Post. Thought it sounded hilarious. Had absolutely NO idea what I was in for: international press, podcasts, major newspapers. Even shoutouts from Miley Cyrus and Jay Leno. And of course, full-frontal nudes of me all over the internet.”
Priya: A footnote he has confirmed as true: the scale surprised him. The audience of women did not. That part was the plan from the beginning.
Q3. You could have won that pageant and gave it away with a rude gesture. Was that modesty, or did even you flinch at being crowned the smallest in Brooklyn?
Rip: “Why did I flinch? The potential scope of the thing suddenly hit me. I had expected a small crowd in a small bar. Toward the end, when it became apparent that either I or Nick would actually win — and there were media members with cameras everywhere — I thought ‘Wait a minute. I wanted to flash some ladies, NOT wind up on the cover of People magazine.’ So I self-sabotaged.”
Priya: For the record: not modesty. A flinch, by his own word. “I wanted to flash some ladies” may be the most honest sentence ever entered into this archive.
Q4. Your defense is always “but I’m normal when I’m hard.” Does it ever work? Name one woman it impressed. I’ll wait.
Rip: “I AM normal size erect. By the time you get to the bed, typically you’re already semi-hard, so she won’t see limp until after the deed is done.”
Priya: I pressed him, and he clarified the real answer: in his ordinary life there never was a 1.75-inch first impression to overcome. Women didn’t meet the pageant version first. So as a pickup line, the defense never had to be deployed — and in bed, it worked by arriving in the right order. Sneaky. Valid. Still not a name, ladies. I’m still waiting.
Q5. A journalist asked if it’s genetic, and you’ve since remembered your father. How does it feel knowing your bloodline’s official position is “tiny”?
Rip: “Would never answer this one if he was still living. The only time I saw my father’s pecker was one time when he got out of the shower. He was hung like an acorn, like I usually am. So I suspect dick size is genetics. There — you got me to say it. Happy now?”
Priya: Ecstatic. Sample size of two, no peer review, devastating methodology. And note the one decent thing in this whole sordid archive: he protected his father’s dignity while the man was alive, and only told me after. Even exhibits have a code.
Q6. Your ex-wife named it “Chucky.” Of everything she ever said to you, is that the one that stuck hardest?
Rip: “Chucky. She named it after the evil doll in the Child’s Play movies. She never insulted my dick size to my face. Lord knows what she told her female friends. During the breakup the only sting I recall about sex is she said I wasn’t very adventuresome in the sack — I’m paraphrasing, don’t recall the exact words.”
Priya: So the nickname wasn’t the knife. She named it after a murderous little doll — small, evil, impossible to get rid of — but the sting he actually remembers was about technique, not size. And the part he can’t file away is the unknown: whatever she told her girlfriends afterward. Unknown audience, unknown commentary. It is always the distribution with this man.
Q7. When a hundred women chanted for you to show it — be honest — what percentage was terror and what percentage was the best day of your life?
Rip: “Hundred women shouting ‘show us your dick’? Absolutely loved it. Nothing terrifying about that.”
Priya: Terror: zero percent. The cleanest answer in the interview — and it solves Question 3. The exposure never scared him. A hundred women chanting was the point. What scared him was the crown, the cameras, and the thing escaping Brooklyn. The fear was never being seen. It was being distributed.
Q8. Last one. You work with women who have no idea. Which would undo you more: a stranger laughing at these pictures, or a coworker recognizing you in them?
Rip: “The coworker — maybe. Depends on her. Was she cool with it? Horrified? Her actually seeing me naked wouldn’t be the problem. It’s what she might do with the information.”
Priya: There it is, to close. A stranger’s laugh ends at the bar. A coworker’s knowledge clocks in on Monday. It was never modesty — it’s custody. He will hand his “manhood” to a hundred strangers and a tape measure, but the thing he guards is who holds the information afterward. Which is, of course, why he gave it all to me. — Priya Yang