IN MY BOOK, YOU'RE NOBODY IF YOUR HANDSHAKE IS LAME. Women who shake my hand by the fingertips automatically get X'ed. Ladies, I don't care how lopsided your waist-to-buttock ratio is; if you shake my hand like you're grasping for a chicken drummette, we have no future. Men with the clammy palm and no fist-bump follow-through aren't really even men to me. But I prefer no follow-through a million times over the pattycake-style hand-tap to my fist-bump. My nuts just crawl up into my back when someone does that shit to me. Where the hell did you learn that? Is there a specific town we can burn down?
If you're a man I've had at least a handful of good laughs with, you usually get the firm handshake with other arm around your back, followed by a firm fist-bump. If you know me, it's what you've come to expect. That's why I'm writing this blog to inform all my friends that in light of this swine flu situation, I am drastically scaling back my handshake policy. From now until this flu thing calms down, it's fist bumps only. For everyone. So don't take it personal. I'm also known to be pretty liberal about sharing food and drinks. My motto is, As long as there are soldiers in Iraq, I can give you a bite of my sandwich. But I'm placing a moratorium on that too. And anyone coughing around me might catch a Civic key to the throat. Either that, or you will turn back to face me after turning your head to the side to cough (assuming you have any manners, you derelict) and see a faint outline of dust shaped sort of like me, in the place where I was standing only half a second prior. I think we should all drink as much hard liquor as possible until this thing is over. Alcohol kills flu germs, so I'm assuming it will do the same thing in the mouth. I'm really serious about this. Keep a bottle of 151 on you at all times, people. For the good of the nation.
I used to see this Brazilian girl who is a world-class breaker (that means breakdancer, alt-kids) and undercover total genius. I met her in the chat rooms at SoulSeek, that ill-fated illegal download site where I procured half the songs you all enjoy every weekend at Saints and Stinkers, and our first date was in the research lab at Cal State Northridge, where she showed me her Maderas cockroach farm. Yeah, it was love. Anyway, she attends John Hopkins Medical University in Baltimore now, and she says they are hoarding antiviral medicine something serious today. In the Palms mayoral compound that houses me, Janet, Rojeanne and a few other familiar faces, we have a phenomenon we call the "building sneeze": a sharp yell that can be heard every forty-five minutes on average that sounds kind of like a man getting his kidneys stolen, which is actually a sneeze. Until now, it's been more annoying than worrying, but I think we are gonna have to find out who it is now. I hope I'm not related. I'm not trying to pull a Michael Corleone.
I understand that these type of people tend to not have Internet connections, but if any of you reading this should happen to run into any impoverished farmers on any subsequent trips to any Third World countries, could you please tell them to stop sleeping with their livestock? It's really just fucking everything up. Oh, and afterwards, try not to come back to L.A. for at least a year.
I can feel some psychosomatic aches and pains coming on, so I'm off to pick Jorge up and go bowling at Lucky Strike with the rest of you bar folk. And then maybe some food after. Pork sounds good.
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