Maybe its bird flu hysteria, or the fact that NYC is running rampant with greasy turd-burgers with sweaty palms, but I am scared shitless of shaking hands with people in New York.
Certain folks just give off that “I just had my hand on my dick” vibe (you know who you are you sweaty mound of pudding) and the prospects of buttering my delicate and well-groomed hands with a pish-posh of their filth scares the bejesus out of me.
For some reason, I seem to be faced with the dilemma of meeting these types on the regular and inevitably forced to shake the hands of these marshmellow-faced dung heaps. Those impossibly long moments of time from “hand-at-side” to “shaking position” are more than ample in allowing me to question what significance this will have on my long term well-being.
I mean, don’t you have to wonder: Did this dude just played with his nuts before leaving the house? Do you think he took a dump and didn’t wash? Wow, is that a dried cum stain on his Dockers and a pube sticking to his thumb? Oh fuck, if he pissed and didn’t wash, then I’m getting dick residue and a hand job by proxy.
And it’s not the actual touching of some skeevy mustachioed d-bag’s hands that really jerks my crank, it’s the prospect of doing so. During the lean-in to the hand shake I always make the “Who Farted?” face and I can sense when the other guy catches it. In that brief moment when our eyes meet, I can see shame that’s as deep as if I had caught him with his dog face-deep in his maple syrup coated ball sack.
Yep, even our filthy friend knows his taint-stained hands are making everyone as comfortable as a comic doing Klan jokes at The Apollo.
This situation must be remedied. I’m not gonna take it anymore. If you’re a New Yorker and you look like you wash yourself in sewage and dry off with a chicken carcass, then you have earned yourself incessant public humiliation, up to and including at wakes and funerals. Next time some Great Aunt passes away, I’m gonna point out the deceased’s affinity for cleanliness, pull out a bottle of sanitizer, and then stare the dirty bastard down with an intensity normally reserved for serial killers and child rapists.
Hey, no one claimed that this would be easy, but it’s better than spending my remaining days ramming my hands into an endless stream of human PortaJohns.