Okay, you’re real men. You can stop now
On the bus home from work last night, sitting at the back, two guys were having a conversation. Just your typical career trimardeurs
, heading home from their gigs at the post office’s central sorting warehouse. However, Charles Bukowski they were not. Talking at each other in the usual I’ve-got-a-penis-so-I-know-everything sorta way.
Whatever. At a certain point on the bus’ path, one of the guys rings to get off so, in keeping with the “kicking it real in the 514” mode, the two knock fists—you know, knuckles on knuckles—in their
innate form of salutation. But no, a simple tap wasn’t good enough for one of the guys. “C’mon, harder.” So, they knock fists harder. And harder. And harder. And harder. And harder. Ten, fifteen times, these two are just whaling away at each other, fist on fist. The sound of bones, flesh, knuckles compressing under this assault was nauseating. Finally, another co-worker of their’s, sitting next to me, reached over and tried to stop them, which they finally did, but only after a few more whacks at each other. The one guy got off the bus, the other just sat there, proud as a peacock. Nothing like a bit of the ultra-violence for male
bonding, now is there?