When Walibri tribesmen of central Australia meet each other, they shake their penises instead of hands (I don't know how you greet their women. . .but I'd like to find out.).
I know what you're thinking--this is just the kind of blowhard confabulation I'm always trying to sell under the guise of arcane folkloric scholarship. If you don't believe me, do a G.I.S. a/k/a Google search. And guess what is the first citation that comes up? All This Is That, of course. We're number one in penis-shaking scholarship!
I know what you're thinking--this is just the kind of blowhard confabulation I'm always trying to sell under the guise of arcane folkloric scholarship. If you don't believe me, do a G.I.S. a/k/a Google search. And guess what is the first citation that comes up? All This Is That, of course. We're number one in penis-shaking scholarship!
Obviously, people on the Internet have some interest in the Walibri, although truth be told, virtually every Walibri reference is less about the Walibi themselves than about their curious "handshaking" custom. Don't try to find out their annual rainfall, whether they are major exporters of bauxite, or their median income.
I'm pretty sure I saw guys shaking like this the time my friends Fuzzy and Richie [1] took me to The Anvil (a notorious leather bar) in the meat-packing district of lower Manhattan.
[1] Characters in My Worst Job No. 6, my long delayed story of working at Carl Fischer, Inc. in NYC.
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