Brian Got Loose on the Dance Floor

First off, you need to know one thing: Brian loves to dance, especially when it involves shaking his boot-tay. There has been serveral occasions when I will find him in an aisle of a store just shaking it away because a good song came on over the speakers.

This past weekend we went to Florida for a wedding of a friend of his. Wedding for Brian equates to dancing, dancing, and more dancing. "Somebody call 911, shawty fire burning on the dance floor."

Brian gets out there, only for his expert dance moves to be down played by a gregarious young 11 year old lad. The kid was down on the floor busting out splits and moves that should be illegal in the United States.

Brian strutted up to the wee little one, pumped his hands from his chest like some sort of ghansta, the kid shrugged with the look of, "you ain't got nothing on me punk," and with that the challenge was declared: DANCE OFF.

"Next thing you know, shawty got low low low low low low low low!"

At some point near to the floor, I saw Brian suddenly freeze, carefully emerge from the floor, and walk away and into a corner from the almighty dance floor. That was it, he just threw in the towel and proclaimed the munchkin king of the dance floor....or so I thought.

Well, the story started earlier when I left behind Brian's suit at home in the last minute packing mania for our trip. Uncle Scott was kind enough to allow Brian to borrow his suit for the festive occasion. Turns out shawty got too low and ripped the pants straight down the seam. A little ripped pants never hurt anybody, but ripped pants plus ripped boxers are...well...indecent exposure in public.

I had to walk closely behind my poor bruised ego and bared bottomed dancing fool back to the table where he slammed down into his chair. From there he moved side to side sadly in attempts to still enjoy the music in his seat as the floor was still rocking.

Luckily, Paula later heard of his misfortunes and cleverly came to his rescue with a rather large napkin, which she tucked down into the back of his britches like a loin cloth. Problem solved!

Without any hesitations or shame wearing a loin cloth, my entertaining husband scurried back to shaking it like a Polaroid picture, but this time with perhaps a little more meager of an ego.

Moral of the story....Uncle Scott, your pants suck.