Oh The Douchebaggery

If you abbreviate it, you get P.D.P.

It's also the group whose mix-master extraordinaire, one Mr. Dox, got me actin' a fool up on the dance floor at the Local 121 Saturday night.
I must say, I got down in a bad way.

When I say bad, I mean I was throwing out moves like the robot, the shopping cart, and, god forbid, the fishing line.

I know a lot of people don't know the technicalities behind most of these moves (besides the regrettable robot) because I have made them up, Paula Abdul-style, as well as having given them their respective monikers.
I like to think I can dance.

I have seen extensive wedding video footage proving just the opposite.

But hell. I like to dance.

I just cannot shake my fury for the funk.

And my propers go out to all those who had to be within three feet of me on the dance floor because I was sweating so hard I could have been the before pic in an Arid Clinical Strength photo shoot...or an extra on Titanic...after the ship has sunk.

Holy hell, I was drenched.

I swear, I never sweat.
My pores are like a miracle of science.

My friends who have gone on a run or to the gym with me can back me up (please back me up).

But something about hitting the dance floor and getting jiggy turns me into a fountain of perspiration.
i think it must have to do with the pure pleasure of moving around wildly on account of delicious beats. One loses time until the bartender shouts last call and you realize you have been shaking your shit for six hours straight.

I was glistening like Richard Simmons when I finally left the joint.

I have to once again give my stamp of approval for the boys of the P.D.P., for their skills are admirable in that they got a relatively gland-less wonder like me to produce enough moisture to irrigate a small African village.