Guy,
What the fuck is your name?
Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Whatever your name is, dude, bravo. Bravo. I’ve participated in a shitload of manshakes in my lifetime and nothing compared to what we just did. It wasn’t a typical, run-of-the-mill manshake, which is essentially just a hybrid high-five/handshake. Hell, it was even better than the original, alpha male manshake made famous by Arnold Schwarzenegger and Carl Weathers in Predator. What we made together was art, man, pure nirvana. And not the Kurt Cobain Nirvana either, I’m talking about that Buddhist transcendental shit.
It’s been three hours since our manshake, and I still can’t get it out of my head. My wife keeps telling me to shut the up about it, but she doesn’t know. In a world of unfulfilled “how-ya-doings,” this organic, spur-of-the-moment joining of our two right hands was a fucking thing of beauty. It’s like our hands have lived their whole lives preparing for this one moment. I’m not washing my right hand for a long time.
How have we been in the same elementary school gymnasium thirty-eight times, as our kids practiced basketball, and never realized the manshake potential we shared?!
Holy shit, fella. I wish I knew your name.
My hand now has purpose, thanks to you. It’s no longer just the hand that does the self-gratifying or the ass-wiping. My right hand is now an equal partner in the greatest manshake of human history.
I know you understand what we just accomplished, but most people don’t. They don’t understand the inherent risks involved when two guys seek to engage in a manshake. The perils far outweigh the benefits. You get this wrong, and you might as well just remove your testicles immediately. There are so many ways to fuck up a manshake, it’s not even funny. It makes what you and I accomplished even more remarkable.
A manshake is perhaps the most spontaneous thing in life. Two guys won’t ever run towards each other with some premeditated desire to meet in the middle and embrace in a manshake. This shit isn’t a Hallmark movie. This is real life.
And there isn’t much worse than an uncoordinated manshake attempt, when your distal phalanges haphazardly crash into his carpal, creating that high-pitched clap. If the initial contact is fucked up, so is the all-important embrace that follows. What’s worse than an out-of-sync manshake? Gout maybe, but not much else.
Goddammit, why can’t I remember your name?
Me and you though, man, we nailed it. We both knew it, too. How did we ascertain so quickly that we even wanted to engage in a manshake? I was going to settle for a simple pat on your shoulder, until I saw the manshake desire in your eyes. I’m literally blown away by our visceral instinct to celebrate manliness.
When our hands joined together with the perfect momentum from each side, and with textbook palm-to-palm contact, we had liftoff. And when our hands made that deep clapping sound? Exaltation! I saw that devious grin on your face, like we just got away with something amazing.
Honestly, fella, I don’t know why you came into my life, or what kind of manshake training you’ve had, but dear God. I’m actually afraid to see you next Tuesday for the 39th time because I’m not sure any subsequent manshake will ever live up to that. Do we even attempt it?
If only I could remember your – wait a minute – your name is Bob. Bob! Fucking Bob!
Bob, my man.
Sincerely,
Josh
