The dance speaker wisely stated, “each dance means different things to different people.” For most, the dances meant absolutely nothing. Clearly, DHS has had to undergo significant budget cuts, as evidenced by the piss-poor dance troop. Rest assured, we cannot afford small classes but we can afford that assembly. Make sure to thank the PTO!
Yet, for others the dance meant more. In those revealing moves by spandex clad performers that would for sure not pass the DHS dress code, some students saw the meaning of life, that they actually were adopted, and the face of g-d. Most people, however, just saw some dancer’s underwear.
Between you and me, their synchronization, choreography, and rhythm on the 6th concerto interlude was way off.
It was like DHS’s own High School Musical. With oration that could—in her words, “Umm”—be mistaken for those of Nelson Mendela’s, the wise dance speaker told us “there is a story in every dancer’s eye. You may not know the story, but know there is a story.” Eleven minutes into a dance, which was mercifully only half of its usual enlightening length, I started to see those stories. One eye said, “boy, I feel queer in this outfit.” Another gleaned, “Clearly this dance is symbolic of the economy. My toe twist is a gesture of expansionary monetary policy; my twirl an inflation of domestic currency, and me putting my head uncomfortably close to that other man’s groin is a move of family tax breaks.”
To be honest, give me Drill Team any day. Maybe even poms.
