You’re a tall, strapping lad with a baritone that rivals Barry White’s. So please tell me that the appendage you just extended to me was a cold piece of flounder you had in your pocket and not your hand because really, from where I'm standing, there isn't a discernible difference between the two. In case you couldn't tell by my wincing, I hate your handshake. It was just a mess from the start to the awkward, clammy finish.
There’s no way a man’s man like you could command a grip so lifeless; it makes mine feel like the Incredible Hulk’s in comparison. Your weak handshake shows a lack of assertiveness on your part. I mean, would you shake the President’s hand that way? It's like I'm meeting Bernie from Weekend at Bernies. Does Andrew McCarthy need to prop you up to meet me? Are you wearing Bermuda shorts?
Your gentle grasp also tells me you probably couldn’t handle a woman like me. How can I expect you to protect me from grizzly bears when we go camping if you receive my hand like it might be infected with MRSA or monkey pox? Hell, how can I even trust you to hand the pizza guy money with a palm so pathetically paltry? Get a grip on your grip, homeboy, because an assured shake would go a long way with me.
[Update: Yes, this applies to girls too. They are not immune from this criticism. I've reconsidered friendships over limp handshakes. Who wants to hang out with a limp handshake giver? NO ONE, that's who.]