With great power comes great responsibility

***News Alert: R.I.P Michael Jackson. Read a Tribute to the King --by TB. (TB is a winner of various major writing awards, most notably "WJW Commenter of the Year")***

One of my favorite lines from Seinfeld is when Jerry’s girlfriend asks him, “Why don’t you like to dance?” And Jerry responds, “because it’s so stupid.”

I once felt this way, too. I hated to dance. I never thought I had rhythm, technique, or the sexy look that Jon gets when he dances. I can recall three specific occasions that have led to my disgust for dancing:

1) Glenn once made fun of my dancing in front of all the Tri Deltas at A&M. Glenn was the director of our Songfest dance at the time, and we were practicing the part of our performance when we break into freestyle. I, of course, opted for the cabbage-patch plus running-man combo, which I pull off with textbook precision. I thought I was doing great before Glenn stopped the music and pleaded, “Please, somebody, please help this person.” So, much to her dismay, Amanda Agler was forced to partner dance with me during the freestyle.

2) When I was a counselor at Sky Ranch, Katie Bentel wanted to two-step during the nighttime social. But I refused, still suffering from post traumatic stress disorder from the aforementioned Songfest practice. But she dragged me out on the dance floor anyway, exclaiming, “Girls just want guys to dance. They don’t care if you’re any good!” I believed her until I saw complete agony in her eyes while we were dancing. Fortunately, Alyssa bolstered my confidence minutes later with moves that should be outlawed from any Christian sports camp.

3) When I worked in Puerto Rico, my students asked me to go out on the town one night. One of my students had a younger sister who was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. She was an angel, and I was going to make her my wife. It was the first time I’d ever been in love. We hung out the entire night, staring longingly into one another’s eyes while I told stories of cowboys and horses back in Texas. Then she tried to get me to salsa dance with her. I insisted that cowboys don’t partake in such activity. But my students pushed me towards the dance floor anyway. I begged them to stop, but gang mentality had grabbed hold, and they hurled me on the dance floor. As I stood on that floor with the girl of my dreams, I searched desperately for a way out. I appealed one final time to buy her a drink instead of dancing. But her body began moving with a beauty my eyes had never seen. I was drawn in by her siren hips, knowing full well of my impending doom should I join. But I had no choice. If I had to go out, I was going out dancing. After the dance, we didn’t speak to one another the rest of the night.

But let not your hearts be troubled, my friends. For I have overcome my dancing woes, thanks in large part to relentless demand from WJW readers for more dancing pics. You have taught me that I have a great power. And with great power comes great responsibility. I have a responsibility to dance. You have invigorated me with a new desire, as have four drinks at Logan’s birthday party. As a showing of my appreciation, I present to you my magnum opus: