I hate Interpretive Dance. I really do. It’s just flailing and throwing yourself around. They don’t even pay attention to the beat. And if they happen to stomp or fall on a particularly notable part? It’s genius! You can’t convince me that having a siezure while music plays is some uber creative way to tell a story or express feelings.
So why would I make a whole day dedicated to it? Because it’s also Naked Wednesday.
I dare you to try to communicate that interoffice memo about falling sales and a broken vending machine to your boss. Which dance move do you think says, “Mr. Smith’s office. How may I direct your call?” and how do you think you can portray that over the phone? Do you think the various grunts and thuds will come across? No? That’s because Interpretive Dance sucks.
I also want to hear that story about why you think the love of your life left you. Again. But this time, it’s at least going to be interesting. When you tell us that you lost him because you told him that his penis was too crooked to be useful, you will have him drop by to perform his role in your breakup. It’s mandatory.
You once told me that I’d never find out how crooked was too crooked.
Game, set, match, bitch.