Let it be clear. I spend a lot of time in dark places. In fact, I own and operate several. The club is my natural habitat. The air is thick, the liquor is flowing, and the bodies are grinding... My kind of place. I am the man in the back you fear and want to be. I sit behind the velvet ropes. I am surrounded by beautiful women and supplicating lackeys who do my bidding. Do not make eye contact. I can have you hanging upside down in the basement face-first in a bucket of pig urine with a snap of my finger if I don't like the hat you've worn to my establishment. Sometimes I haul someone down just for the hell of it. Nothing gets a rise like a man desperately proclaiming his innocence.

It always amuses me to see how the chronically uncool attempt to mask their ineptitude in the desperate quest for acceptance. You should know I do give points for effort. As a reward, I've been known to grant those who really try with a brief audience with myself, during which I give a few pointers and a cash purse with enough to make it happen. What can I say? Nothing makes me feel better than helping someone inferior. I am a man of the people.

I observe the drama of the dance floor. Through the sweat and the swelter, I realize one thing: Most of you can't dance for @#$!.

Dance is the art of the body in movement. To feel the music is to fall into the fever of beat and rhythm that compels the feet, and envelops the soul. It is the majesty of motion. The art of dance is a sacred ritual. It is the utmost expression of the purest grace. It is beauty defined as movement.

With the stop-motion bobble-headed spasms of an electrocuted chicken I see you thrashing about under the strobes. If such tactless seizures were not so brutally common amongst the proletariat (and I didn't know it would so drastically cut into profits), I would have you eliminated on sight as an example to the rest... I would mandate certification in some kind of movement science along with dress code as a bare minimum for entrance to my establishments. Unfortunately, if the average night is any indication of your limbic abilities, there would be no one left.

So gather 'round, you enemies of culture. Your unholy ass-flapping may be an unchecked cancer on the sanctity of my appreciation, but your blight is not absolute. There is still one form of dance that will never be diluted and debased by the banality of common man. It is the last bastion of grace left is a world of fap and puerility. It is the Art of Ballroom.

There is only one man beside myself who has even exceeded my standards. He is truly one of the Great; the most worthy living artist of our time. His name is Jim Jarlewski. As of today, I am honoured to say he is my close and personal friend.

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