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2003-06-26
8:08 p.m.

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I'm what you might call a "Non-dancer."

I will not dance under almost any circumstances. Someone could be holding a gun to my Mom's head threatening blow off her skull cap if I didn’t Cha-Cha my sweet little ass off.

Sorry, Mom. Say hi to Grandpa.

Heh, I kid … I love you Mom! Thanks for the tuition payments!

My no-dancing policy runs contradictory to my girlfriend's policy, which is pro-dance in nature. Now, she'll tell you that when we first met in London I was all about dancing.

This isn't exactly true.

Yes, I did do some dancing while I was overseas, but I had my reasons.

One, I was trying to gain the good favor of said girlfriend. Unfortunately, as any self-respecting male will tell you, at least some dancing is required during the courting phase of a relationship.

Another reason for the dancing stint … I'm in the fucking clubbing capital of the world. At the typical London club there are two activities you can occupy yourself with. You can dance, or you can drink. If possible, I choose the latter in almost any club situation. However, when a weak-assed Vodka Red Bull costs, on average, ten American dollars, I'm forced to take my chances on the dance floor.

I know what you're saying. "Oh, I bet he's a shitty dancer. I bet he can't jig his way out of a wet paper bag!!"

On the contrary, I'm a great dancer. AND … I'm a better dancer when I'm sloshed…

I just don't like dancing. Deal with it.

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