Hey, emo kid: get a haircut!

There is a fine line between self-expression and simply making a fool of oneself. That is why I do not dance. I dare not take the risk of sweating, splitting my pants or moving robotically.

Rather, I just stand in the corner of the club, smoke my cigar, and read my copy of the UWM Times.

Who do these buffoons think they are? What is this, this “crunk”? What has happened to the heart of America? Has it simply given up, to be pranced upon by hip-hop B-boys, pacifier-sucking ravers, and filthy punk rockers?

I, for one, refuse to participate in this blasphemy. Let my protest be recognized: with the liberalism of moving bodies comes a change for the worse in our homeland. Can’t we all just jitterbug and get along?

One must ask him/herself: how would the Bush family dance? Probably in straight lines, like the honest cowboys they are, or like soldiers — disciplined!

And that is exactly what these depraved fools need: a sense of self-improvement.

Hey, emo kid: get a haircut! Pull up those stupid pants, gangsta rapper! And patch up that jean jacket, you pimply-faced rock ‘n’ roller!

Maybe this is what these people need: a philosophy. When they are out dancing — “having fun” or “expressing themselves” — they should be reading publications by people like Sean Hannity or Bill O’Reilly.

That is what I do, and look where it has gotten me … yeah, that’s what I thought, bitch.

It is time I take charge of this dance club. Perhaps some Celine Dion or Michael Bolton over the speakers will prove to be positive toward these fools’ feeble sense of moral righteousness.

Maybe I will pull out the big gun with some Toby Keith, and really kick the butts of these un-Americans.

Unfortunately, the bartender won’t break the $1,000 bill I’ve pulled from my cash-wad bound by rubber bands. “I’ll murder you, hippie,” I shout, slapping him.

Regardless, I have caught the eye of a willing young lady and I don’t think she wants to dance.

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