Stink Palming Matt Lauer
It was Ohio University’s Homecoming. The year was 2000. I saw him, tight conversational entourage in tow, his slight former scoleosis model build, balding middle-age accountant-like cranium, and his loose-fiting Brooks Brothers suit as he descended up the hill from East Green. He was smiling, swashbuckling through his old digs awash in feelings of accomplishment and success.
I knew at once what I must do, what the Universe called for in order give a blessing toward every hard-hitting investigative journalism lover out there. I had to stink palm Matt Lauer. I greased up, subtly, of course, and approached with filth fingers outstretched, smile beaming, and a faint aroma of a festering possum sore wafting through the warm evening air.
The actual shake was nothing to note, not particularly limp fingered, not particularly long in duration. Just a quick pump or two with the token verbal pleasantries exchanged. And then away he went, moving out toward the mass of Bobcat grins, a rancid bacteria war waging across his right palm, as the sun downed in the Appalacian green hills beyond.