Monthly Archives: July 2011

Shake, Shake, Shake Senora

We are three days away from the wedding of Brian and Katie, people. Rejoice. Yay!

72 hours left of the single life, and the question I’ve been asked the most is “Are you nervous?” My answer, “No,” but in reality it’s “Shit yeah.”

Nervous about the wedding? No. Nervous about getting married? Absolutely not. My nerves are sweating for one reason: All the handshakes.

Yes, you read that right. After the wedding, after the I Dos, after the introduction, it will be nonstop hand shaking for 3 hours while we try to eat, drink, dance, do whatever we want because, God damnit, we’re married.

It’s not so much a germs thing, although the thought of eating after shaking all those hands might make me invest in some hand wipes or Purell. It’s the different types of hand shakes I’m doing to have to deal with during the reception. Let me break it down for you:

The only acceptable hand shake is a strong hand shake. Don’t bring this weak wristed shit to my wedding. Strong, straight wrist. The V where the thumb and pointer finger meets should touch or be within a quarter of an inch to the other person’s V. The pressure, this is where many of these shakes go wrong, needs to be strong without being deadly. Imagine squeezing an orange at the grocery. You don’t squash it, yet you don’t give it a light tap. Put some pressure into it. Be a man, and learn to shake a hand properly.

The problem is for every one of these handshakes I’ve encountered in my life, they have been followed with around 7 unacceptable forms. These are characterized as:

The weak wrist.

We’ve all seen it in TV and in movies where one guy brings the weak, limp wrist in for a hand shake, also called the dead fish. What the hell is this? If I wanted to shake a cooked noodle, I’d go to Olive Garden. There is no way to remedy this handshake because the nonlimper has no choice but to go weak also, lest they break the poor bastard’s wrist. This is the worst of the handshakes, especially when coupled with …

The fingertip shake


This example occurs when a person gives between 1/3 to 2/3 of their fingers to an open, extended hand. This results in the most awkward handshake because the other person is usually so befuddled by this greeting that they lose all focus and end up giving a weak wrist shake. The result of the weak-wrist, fingertip shake is equivilent to two men hosting tea parties while wearing camisoles and watching Gilmore Girls. It just isn’t right.

The Cut Off

The cut off is when you go to grasp someone’s hand and they prematurely close their hand and clamp onto your fingers. To the outsider, it looks like a weak-wrister, and unfortunately, no matter how hard you practice proper shaking technique, it happens to the best of us. I have accidently closed too early and have been closed on too early also. The only solution to this is awareness. Just know your surroundings and focus on what you’re doing and this can be avoided.

The Lingerer

This handshake is the one that just won’t stop. It’s firm, deliberate and by all accounts a proper handshake. The problem is that it continues past the initial greeting and well into the conversation. Like basketball, this is why handshaking needs a shot clock. After 3 seconds, a buzzer needs to go off and a ref needs to blow the whistle to call a foul. Problem solved.

The too much grabber.


The opposite of the fingertipper is the too-much grabber (I just made this word up, so if there’s a proper word for it or if anyone has a better idea, let me know). This occurs when Person A extends his hand for a manly shake and Person B grabs a hold of A’s wrist, resulting in not a hand shake, but a wrist shake. While it can still be strong and firm, it is uncomfortable, awkward and really creepy. There’s no place for this over-aggressiveness in today’s society, so let’s drop this, please.

The handshake-pull-in-hug

This has become a growing trend among men today. You go in for the shake and when you think it’s over, they pull you in and do the one-arm hug while still holding on to you palm. To be fair, I practice this when my friends, but rather than the handshake-pull-in, we go with the cupped-hand-slap-pull-in. It’s really the same thing, but a tad less formal than the full-on handshake. For the wedding, I’m doing to practice safe-shake and just say no to hugs.


Another name I made up, this is when the shake starts off as a normal handshake, then goes to the cupped hand slap, then turns to the curved fingertip hook. Again, in all honesty, this is the greeting my uncle and I give each other, so I don’t consider this one to be too bad. I just wanted to put this down as another shake example.


Exactly like the name says. Handshake first, then cupped handshake, then a front hand slap, then reverse hand slap, then a high five and ending with a reverse low high five. It’s practiced rarely, but when it’s done right, it’s awesome.

Sports guy chest bump

If you’ve seen Modern Family before, then think of the scene with Mitch and Cam in the first episode. I’m hoping this happens at the wedding, but not as much as …


BEST. GREETING. EVER. Do this at the wedding, and I’ll name my first born child after you. Boy or girl, it doesn’t matter.

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DE-BATE … clap clap … DE-BATE … clap clap …

This is your cover, Scott? Eye yai yai

Fellow Briantologist Kristen Ralph Hansen has been in an online debate recently with author and podcaster Scott Sigler and his fanboys over the novel “Infected.”

Hansen posted a review of the novel on her reading blog  (there’s five more hits for you, Kristen), and Sigler replied to the posting, wanting to know what she didn’t like about the book. After Sigler’s post, the author’s fans came out in force to question Kristen’s tastes in genre and writing style.

First of all, I am the one who recommended “Infected” to Kristen. I bought it at Barnes and Noble awhile ago thinking it would be a quick, easy, no-brainer read, and it was. My review of it? Meh. I agree a lot of what Kristen says in the review. Good story, good flow, sketchy logic and lacking character development, but overall enjoyable.

Now my review is neither here nor there. What I want to say is good for you, Scott Sigler. Good for you for reading websites like goodreads and actually caring about what your readers think. So many times I hear people complain about a director’s (ahem, Michael Bay) story development or overcomplication of plot to make themselves feel smarter than the audience (JJ Abrams, you around?).

But those directors or authors don’t care. They’ll ignore audiences’ complaints and continue to do what they do because it makes them money. Their technique has worked so far, so why change it now?

But here, Sigler is a well-known author (as proven by his fan support) and a renowned podcaster (according to the back of “Infected”) and he actually wants feedback from readers whom he has never before met.

So while his novel wasn’t Pulitzer worthy and did not make me want to read any of his other novels, I applaud his interest in others’ opinions.

His fans, though, need to lighten up a little bit. It’s like little white triangles have gotten into their nervous system and are causing them into terrible fits of rage.

Because that wouldn’t be CRAZY at all.


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Douche of the Week … FINALLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Some of these are a bit out-of-date. Sorry.


Douche of the Week Second Runner-Up … J. Cheney Mason

On July 5, America was surprised to hear the Casey Anthony not guilty verdict. Well, kinda guilty. Guilty of not telling the truth to the federal government but not guilty of killing her daughters. She’s a lying bitch but not a murder.

Anyway, right after the verdict, J. Cheney Mason, one of the — but not the MAIN — victorious lawyers for Anthony comes out and issues this statement to the media.

Well I hope this is a lesson for those of you who have indulged in media assassination for three years. Bias, prejudice, and incompetent talking heads saying what would be and how to be. I am disgusted by some of the lawyers that have done this. And I can tell you that my colleagues from coast to coast and border to border have condemned this whole process of lawyers getting on television and talking about cases that they don’t know a damn thing about and don’t have the experience to back up their words or the law to do it. Now you’ve learned a lesson.

Really, assbucket? You’re going to come out after you got the luckiest verdict since 1995 and puff out your chest like you’re the man?!? You threw up a Hail Mary and it worked. You shot a full-court buzzer beater and it went in. You got a hole-in-one after your ball hit three trees and a squirrel. You got LUCKY!

Lucky that the prosecuttion crapped the bed again. Lucky the body was so decomposed the police had no evidence. Lucky the real world doesn’t work like SVU or Bones where 3-D models of the killings can be made based off one hair folicule.

So don’t come out swinging your dick when A.) You weren’t the head lawyer, B.) Everyone agrees you got lucky, and C.) Your first name is a letter. That’s pretentious, and really douchy.

Douche of the Week Runner-Up … Park 12 Cobb Stadium Cinemas

I should have known that a small company-owned theater would be bad news. I should have known when I walked in and saw that the theater didn’t have stadium seating that there was going to be a problem. Hell, I should have known by its location in Cobb County this place was going to suck.

I was an idiot.

“Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2.” Opening night. Only the biggest summer movie in years. Yet, in the middle of the movie, the theater got some unexpected special effects when the fire alarm started going off midway through the movie.

The best part? No one moved. Because it wasn’t the siren of the alarm, just the flashing strobe light. And it all happened during an action scene, so I, probably like most of the audience, thought it was part of the battle scene to have the strobe light going off. That would have been sweet.

But no, the movie stopped on a close-up of Daniel Radcliffe’s face. The lights came on, the employees ushered us out, and then back in. They told us the movie would start soon, then later said it wouldn’t. Then they handed out free passes to any movie at that theater … in COBB EFFING COUNTY!

And the reason for the alarm? Not a fire, but a busted AC unit. Screw you, Park 12 Cobb Stadium Cinemas. Next time a fire alarm goes off, I hope it’s because someone set fire to you.

Douche of the Week … Me

This is my first post in more than two weeks, a sin in the blogging community. I apologize to my six faithful readers who expect better of me. I let you down, and for that I ask of your forgiveness.

Please know that I will do my best to keep this site updated as often as possible. I will write on weekends, birthdays, Christmas, my wedding night. Whatever it takes to win back the trust of my readership.

Briantology would not be here without the tens of site views I get a month. I accept the Douche of the Week award with my head held low and a tear in my eye.

Forgive me, readers, for I have been lazy.

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My Peachtree Experience

This morning I ran my first Peachtree Road Race 10K in Atlanta. While I’ve done a bunch of road races and 10Ks before, this one was different. Maybe it was the July 4 patriotism that permeated throughout the crowd or that 60,000 people woke up insanely early on a holiday morning to run, but it was a memorable race. Here’s what I remember …

To better appreciate the race, let’s go back to the preceding night. A lot of runners prefer to carbo-load by eating a lot of pasta or whole grain foods. Me? I like pizza, and lots of it. So Katie and I went to Fellini’s last night to get some carbs.

That decision would haunt me later in the night, specifically around 2 a.m. I acknowledge that I’m addicted to Diet Coke, and once I get a small sip of the psuedosugared nectar, I cannot stop. So one drink led to another, which led to another, which led to another, which led to a total of about 60 ounces being drunk at dinner. That’s a lot of caffeine, and all that caffeine decided it would finally start working when I was trying to go to sleep. It wouldn’t be until close to 3 that I was finally able to get some rest.

A 5 a.m. wake up call comes early no matter what time you fall asleep, but when you’ve only gotten a couple of hours of shuteye before the alarm starts crowing, then you curse the morning. Or at least I did.

Like the 5 Hour Energy commercials with the people stumbling from the bed to the kitchen to down the energy drink, I found the energy bottle I bought last night and chugged it, hoping for some reprieve from my eyelids’ weight. I am skeptical about a lot of “energy” supplements, but this stuff works, and it works fast.

By 5:45, I’m dressed, I’m juiced, I’m ready to go. Katie and the dog, not so much.

Mad props to Katie for driving me to the MARTA station at 6 a.m. The Decatur station was sprinkled with a few crazy runners like myself, all of them either halfway asleep or hopped up on vitamin B like me. A short ride later, we arrive at the Five Points station to switch to the north/south line, and it’s a free-for-all. Failing to realize that more trains would be coming, people packed and packed and packed the trains until the rails started bucking from the weight. I myself found a comfortable corner where I could stand without the awkward bobbing and groping that occurs in a crowded train.

Ten short minutes later, I arrive at Lenox Mall, scene of the race’s starting line. Thousands of people flood the streets when a strong feeling hits me. “Damn, I have to pee.” I look for the nearest port-o-potty only to find the lines a gross deep. With only 20 minutes until my group starts, there’s no way I’ll make it through the line and get to the start in time. I look around and see another comfortable corner away from prying eyes and snooping cops, and well …

Sorry, Lenox. It gets worse too. After I return to empty I walk to my starting area, corral C. It turns out that runners in groups A, B, and C are considered elite enough to have their own special starting area with water, toilets and free space that only they are allowed to use due to race officials keeping the riff-raff of groups D and below out of the area. So my criminal activity was all for naught. Oops. I’m just glad I’m still able to ride the coattails of my high school and college running prowess to my benefit.

With 15 minutes before the start, I stretch, drink my final sips of water and even use the line-free port-o-potty before lining up. I’ve been to many sporting events and I’ve had to stand through and tolerate the singing of the national anthem, but this time was different. Again, maybe because it was the Fourth of July or maybe it was the final four-story American flag that hung above the starting line, but this national anthem rendition was amazing. Plus they had FIGHTER JETS!!!!!!!

That’s right!!!!!!! Three fighter jets did a fly-over after the “Home of the Brave,” sending chills down my spine and rattling a lot of Buckhead windows. Now that is how you start a race!

For those reading this who have never run the Peachtree before, there is no “race” at the start. For the first ¾ of a mile, the streets are so crowded with the tens of thousands of crazy people running that you can barely walk, let alone run, down the street. It’s not until you cross Piedmont that I was able to start going at a decent pace.

So I run, for a long time. Here’s a few highlights:

High-fiving a chicken

Some person dressed in a chicken suit for no apparent reason was cheering on the crowd along the course. It was bad enough running in shorts and a shirt in the heat, but this guy was full-on feathered cheering and dancing. Hopefully he hasn’t roasted. Perhaps Atlantans should stay away from Boston Market today just to be on the safe side.

High-fiving the Chick-fil-A cows

More animal suited fun, this time a mom, dad and baby cow courtesy of Chick-fil-A. Again, props to those battling the heat in those furry furnaces.

 The Baptism

While the firefighters had their hoses spraying the course, giving runners a reprieve from the heat, one church set up a misting station on the course, only with this one shooting out holy water rather than normal water. With my sins cleared, I took on Cardiac Hill.

 The Crowd

I mentioned the people along the streets, but they deserve another mention. Countless spectators filled Peachtree’s sidewalks, cheering runners, handing out tiny American flags. Moes even had people out throwing shirts at people as they ran by.

My sole complaint: Some woman at the final water station was cheering on runners, telling them to keep going and there was only .2 miles left. “REALLY?” I thought. Hell, I can run another .2 miles easily. Only a minute and a half left …

As the race wore on and I wore down, I cursed and cursed her. The encouragement I got from hearing .2 miles left evaporated like sweat in the Atlanta morning heat. But just when I was about to turn around and strangle that water-dispensing liar, I finally saw it.

I crossed in a time of 47:41, my best 10K time in two years. A few waters, Powerades, peaches and bananas later at the post-run festival, I was riding MARTA back to Decatur, where I’m currently enjoying the AC and sofa.

Happy birthday, America! And good job, Peachtree.


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When Boobs Attack

Due to the suckyness of my last couple of posts, guest blog poster Kristen Hansen, formerly of the Kristen Ralph band, decided to relief me of my responsibility this weekend. And she presents a post in pictures.

If you haven’t seen this story, check it out here. Or follow below.

Thanks to Kristen for doing my work.

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