That's right FOX, how d'you like dem apples?!?

This time at home has strangely been like a modified version of Footloose for me (except the whole town dances and it's the new guy who has no clue...plus this one doesn't include Kevin Bacon, thank god, who is second only to James Blunt in creep-me-the-hell-out factor). I've always enjoyed hip thrusting to a beat, don't get me wrong, but I've never been much of a club-goer. However, in the past two weeks not only have I gone to more than one club (which brings my total perilously close to more than I can count on one hand), but these clubs were not your run-of-the-mill dee-jayed dry humps.

Let me justify that. Remove one more piece of clothing from 90% of the people there and America would have another baby boom on it's hands, but such was not the focus of these clubs.

First on the list was a Salsa club. But Joey, doesn't that involve coordinated step, self confidence, AND adequate motor skills? Why yes my friend, Salsa does, and your worried tone is well merited. Yet I neither hospitalized myself nor did I injure my partner, as was originally expected. It's a funny feeling going into a situation with another person in which you know one of you will sustain average to serious bodily harm. A layman's Russian Roulette. Almost as exciting as the time I was in a car that spun off an icy road and did multiple flips into a ditch...but who really wants to hear about that?

I honestly believed I was not making a complete ass of myself, but the large volume of drunken 50 year old Hispanic guys that kept cutting in to show me how to do it right says otherwise. Can't say I blame them. If I saw a gangly, fumbling, rhythmically retarded gringo spazzing out in the corner I would feel it to be no less than my solemn duty to correct his erring ways. My favorite interloper (again, I'm spending way too much time on Thesaurus.com) was this particularly old guy wearing all white, including newsie cap and shoes, with a touch of flavor in the form of a bright green, floral print bandana around his neck. He startled me the first time (for there were more than one) that he interrupted because A) he was literally no taller than 5 feet, and B) spoke only Spanish, which means it didn't initially register with me when I heard a furious string of "Mira! MIra! MIRa! MIRA!" getting louder and louder as it approached, like a jet zipping overhead (or the cries of Britney Spear's neglected children, in case you were expecting a more flippant simile). Next thing I knew I was sitting in the corner watching him and my date go at it for 20 minutes or so.

Which is fine with me, because it's next to impossible to trip or break someone's big toe when you're sitting down.

The second club (which is also last on the list...I'm lame), the Branding Iron, was a horse of a different color...

Get it? Huh? HUH? Do ya'? 

Pathetic puns are my cocaine, what can I say?

As may be inferred from the name, this is the club where, yes, I went line dancing. And no, I will not repeat that. In truth the night alternated between that and "freestyle" (which was a prolonged period of synchronized sex basically), but still the experience was new for me. While I am still convinced the Devil actively tortures damned souls with Keith Urban albums, I had a remarkably enjoyable night.

...meh, this one was kind of a bust. I'll quickly recap.

A lot of people wearing cowboy hats and not much else.

Heard a girl yelling at her boyfriend, "Well I hope you choke on her big, fake BOOBS!"

The End.

Just wanted to get this one out of the way for something much more interesting I found online...