Fever

DANCE fever that is, folks. Don't know why, but this weekend's debauchery made me want to return to a simpler time. The time when I would spend ALL evening in front of the mirror, gussying up and looking my best. If only my best were anywhere close to fucking mediocre, man:

Which one am I? CLEARLY the smoky greaser on the left, heir to James Dean's throne of cool... OH who the fuck am I kidding? I am the Jolly Green fucking Giant on the right, destined to be weeping into my massive DR. Who scarf at the end of the night because some effing BOZO did not realize the beauty WITHIN... motherfuckers. I'll make them pay. I'll make them all pay.

SIGH. Seriously though, despite the deep, deep emotional scars, how good are school dances? WHEN ELSE might you possibly get into a really awkward and inappropriate sexual situation with YOUR OWN MOTHER when she was a teen in Hill Valley in 1955, hot for your bod despite your squirrely looks and high voice? It's a young boy's dream, isn't it? Um... is it? No. Don't tell me.

AND the music kicks fucking ass as well, nevermind Biff Tannen and his 3D glasses wearing chums trying to tell you that Pat Boone is 'the berries' or whatever the fuck people said in the 50s... naw, really bold sax is where it's at.

SPEAKING OF WHICH:

Holy shitting HELL! That's the scariest example of jazz hands I have ever seen... barring this of course:

Whoooaaa man, slow your roll and let DJ Big Daddy smoove shit out with some basic trax:

Bip! Uggghhh, I'm exhausted. I'm going to quit now. lest I inadvertently get carried away and hire G Daddy for my next big event. I'm out.