Well Met,

Since the time I published my first fanifesto-- a set of instructions you are to abide by when talking to me, seeing me, or thinking about me-- I've come to realize a series of additions are necessary. Many of you have violated the rules of the previous document, and there's really no excuse for that. I maintain that I am merely some sort of quasi-celebrity that does normal human things like the rest of you, but I also hold the assumption that you've read everything I've ever posted on my blog, no matter how self-important and ridiculous you might consider many of those posts to be. I'm on basic cable, for Pete's sake! And yet, I've still been accosted and inconvenienced by the unwashed on several occasions since my initial post, and that simply won't do. That said, on with my continued ukase!

  • Don't touch me. Do I look like a pincushion to you? Don't poke, prod, hug, pat me on the arm, try to shake my hand, give me daps, anything. I'm not the type of guy to give a high five anyway, so don't even bother trying. I also don't have any idea where your hand has been, but statistically speaking, probably somewhere disgusting like your butt or genitals. Your rump particles are not part of any recipe I've ever disemboweled on a chalkboard.
  • DON'T TOUCH ME. I can't believe I need to say this twice. Don't touch me. Do NOT touch me. When your non-understanding, grubby, commoner hands get close to me, I feel bugs in my skin. Keep those paws to yourself. As referenced previously, you may have any number of deadly diseases.
  • Please, don't say my name. Don't even say anything that sounds remotely similar. If I think I hear my name while I'm trying to eat, walk, or sit, there's a very good chance that I'll simply get up and walk off. Sorry, but if you don't lead off with something at least marginally impressive (say, that you make your own organic croutons from scratch), I'm under no obligation to even turn my head, much less idly banter with you for several seconds or more.
  • Let's end on the biggie: No more eye contact. Suppose I'm walking down the street in your direction and I spot you pointing at me. I'm going to do that thing where I cover my eyes with my hand and walk past you as quickly as I can. No offense, I totally respect you as a fan and I understand that I'd be absolutely nothing without folks like you to support my shows and books, but I can't stand looking any of you directly in the eye lest I pick up some of your non-famous cooties. I've probably got a puppet show to direct in which we describe how a pizza works. Please, don't bother me unnecessarily by forcing me to see your eyes with my eyes. It's just a waste of both of our time, really.
Thanks, everyone. That should cover just about everything. With your cooperation, we can make my reluctant-yet-petulant food channel celebrity status as painless for me and as depressingly unappealing for everyone else as possible. If you have any questions about anything in this document, please keep a printed copy in your wallet and we can go over it together in person when you see me. I'll be happy to explain the larger words to you. Take care!

The real Alton Brown's 'My Fanifesto' can be read and enjoyed here, and should be considered required reading for anyone who has ever written an email or post and not submitted it, but wondered how they'd come off looking if they had.

– Alton Brown (@fart)

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