Consider this Exhibit 259 in the case of Age v. Rubie Q:
I'm right in the middle of an epic dance-off with SB's Tony Gwynn on Saturday. I believe this was right after the spate of Reel Big Fish songs. My calves are barking like Dobermans. Sweat is pouring off my head. I am getting dizzy. I am contemplating how incredibly lame it would be for me to survive the Great White Excursion to the Great White North, only to die on a makeshift dance floor in the club level of Lambeau Field. SB's Tony Gwynn (and Sheets' Va Jay Jay) are still bouncing happily around the floor, even though no music is playing.
I am shooting mind bullets at the DJ:
Play a slow one. Play a slow one. For the love of God, it can be "Butterfly Kisses." JUST PLAY A FUCKING SLOW ONE.
And just like that: "Jump Around."
But I put on my game face, and obey the song's demands for a while, though I would have much preferred to do the opposite (stay in my seat; not jump around). And then -- sweet, merciful, seven-pound six-ounce Baby Jesus: the song starts skipping! And I turn and look at the DJ, and I'm sure he thought I was telling him: Christ, man, fix the song. Actually, I would have much preferred if he let the song play to the end, then "accidentally" unplugged all of his equipment for a couple minutes. But anyway, he had to scramble for a new track, which gave me just enough time to assume the classic out-of-shape, on-the-border-of-collapse position: hunched over, hands on knees, sucking in sweet lady O.
I like to think that the Lutheran God gave me a heavenly shout-out for visiting his church earlier in the day. I'm still not convinced on this religion thing, but LG, you're cool with me.