May 01, 2002
Arts and Entertainment
By Amanda Nowinski
As usual, the Jägermeister has convinced us that we are among the fiercest dancers on earth. We work it to the left, stumble to the right, put our arms in the air, and offer up some heated woohoo-ing. After all, this is house music, bitch, and we didn't pay to sit down. We grab each other's hands and launch into a heavy-hitting Dance Fever one-on-one. We let our cigarettes dangle from our lips, because we feel kind of cool as we channel the ghosts of our PCP-smoking disco forefathers. The DJ slips it in nice and slow with ESG's "Moody," and we freak the fuck out.
It's been a rough week, and because we are spiritual, we ask ourselves, what would Jesus do? Naturally, he'd have another drink.
I'm wearing four-inch stiletto heels, which is kind of absurd for someone clumsy like me. Back on the floor I bump against Dancing David, who spins me into a mega, mega disco twirl, and I go flying on the tips of my heels and spin, spin right into Big Guurl, who's really not having it tonight. She towers over me in her tired Doc Marten boots, and although I'm over six feet in my shoes, I'm nothing compared to her. Her evil eye is so extreme I feel holes burning through my neck and arms. But I don't care because I'm way too happy to be alive right now, and the DJ is playing my absolute top song the one I can never remember by name.
Dancing David, whose ass is about half the size of mine, starts to bug off of Big Guurl, who keeps inching up on us, trying to push us off the floor with her unmistakable crystal-meth gestapo strut. "You better hold your ground," he warns me, nodding over to the shady one and her lumbering, cruel-eyed posse, Grisle Girl and Forest Cunt. We ignore them and carry on with our fantabulous house music dream.
Soon our naughty cocktail glasses beg to be refilled, so we begrudgingly hop over to the bar. Big Guurl sneaks up from behind and taps on Dancing David's back. "You and your little friend," she says, glaring over at me with her greasy bug eyes, holding one hand on that mean old hip. "You don't know what it's about, and you better watch it."
Dancing David unleashes the queen: "You don't know me, Miss Thing. And trust me, I know what it's about. So excuse me, but can you please step aside?" I stand behind Dancing David and add my combative, scary part to the drama: "Yeah." She shoots us another oily glare and hobbles away. We pay for our drinks and hold our heads up high, return to the dance floor, and fucking own it until the lights come on.
"I think she was jealous," Dancing David tells me over the phone the next day. "Not everyone has our skills."
"You're so right," I say. "But maybe we were really wrecked?"
"Nonsense," he says. "If she was a real peace-and-happiness raver like she thought she was she would have been totally down with our stupid shit."
We make plans to kick her ass in the bathroom the next time we see her, thereby doing our part in the whole PLUR scam. We gripe about the fact that no one likes to dance anymore, that they prefer to just stand around, shopping for rotten meat in a flea-ridden market. We know exactly what Jesus would do he'd fucking shake it.
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