Dear Ladies and Gentlemen:

I am in dire need of an intervention.  What I need help in is something that started out as a simple vice that my friends could deal with in small doses, but it has gotten so out of control it has friends and family wondering if I can ever get out of this downward spiral I created for myself before I hit rock bottom and ruin my life.

What is it you may ask?  Alcohol?  Nah…I drink the normal amount of any other person…one unit per weekend…one unit filled with 24 smaller, delicious units.  Marijuana?  I’ve never tried drugs in my life other than Tylenol, DayQuil and when I was a crack whore in 1998…age 11 was a weird time for me.  Is my intervention for ugliness?  First off, ouch, and secondly an a scale of 1-10 I’m sure the ladies would say that make them dry heave only twice.  Masturb?…you know what I’m not gonna dignify that with a bone…I mean erec…I mean answer.

No, my problem is worse than all three of these, hoarding, prostitutes and Jelly Bellying (smearing Smucker’s in your belly button then having a stray dog eat it) combined.  My problem, for which I need an intervention, is…………………….

Dancing!!!

Honestly it’s a sickness.  Me on the dance floor is abysmal.  It’s as if someone has injected me with some sort of Super-Caucasian steroid that takes everything stereotypically wrong with white people dancing and giving it to me.  I can’t keep the beat if I had a metronome or a dozen eggs and a whisk (to beat the eggs…get it?…shut up!…it’s funny to someone, damnit!…I hope).  I don’t have a clue what to do with my hands.  I end up flailing them around like I’m a marionette, keeping them at my sides like I’ve got pit stains or thrashing them around in some sort of voodoo rain dance that magically repels women.

Speaking of women that’s another issue with me.  I should be able to dance with a girl, no problem.  It’s just dancing…but my problem is that I imagine the worst.  In my head I believe that every girl on the dance floor is just waiting for me to tap them on the shoulder so they can unleash their new self-defense moves they learned at the YWCA or spray their Retina Raper 9000 pepper spray that causes the pupils to melt out of my skull; hence why it’s really hard for me to make any physical contact with a girl…ever.  I need a formal invitation, a written contract and a notary to authenticate the touching for me to engage dancing with a girl.  I never dance with friends who are girls because I never want them thinking “Uh-oh Fraker is getting physical with me…he must want something more than friends…better kick him in the nuts and defriend him on Facebook” even though we’re friends and it would be ok.  It’s an irrational fear, I know, but it’s something I can’t shake.  I never want to be that creepy friend who creeps on his girl friends like a creep with his creepy moves and creepy face.

Here’s what usually happens when I go out with friends on weekends:  We all go out to a local bar.  There’s a dance floor.  All my friends who are couples dance with each other.  That’s cool and I would do the same if I had a girlfriend.  Next my single friends who are Rico Suave’s look for girls to dance with and inevitably get the girls dancing in ten minutes.  Great for them…I’m just not smooth in opposite-sex-stranger-cold-open conversations…I usually make a bad joke, forget their name or Nart (let out a nervous fart)…never good.  Now we have everyone on the dance floor living it up except me and the friend of a friend who you don’t know that well, but well enough to know you can’t carry a one-on-one conversation with them. 

This sequence of events leads me to stand off to the side and watch the same Sportscenter I’ve seen four times already (because sports will never leave or judge me) while pounding alcohol until I stagger over to where my friends are and start dancing around the people like a toddler learning how to walk: I move too fast for my head, stumble around until I get my balance again and repeat the process until either I fall down or crap my pants.

Now the Toddler Dash is only one of the dance moves I have “perfected” and use on a weekly basis.  Here’s my whole arsenal of dance moves I scare the general public with:

• Toddler Dash: already explained.
• Jimmy The Snitch: I stand in one place as if I’m in concrete boots like a Mafia snitch would be and move my arms around as if I’m trying to swim my way up to the surface.  It’s my standard move.
• Mockerena: I do the Macerena to whatever song is playing.  It’s usually for comedic effect, but I’m the only one who knows I’m joking because my face is serious with my eyes closed as if I’m pouring my soul into this atrocious dance.  Works great for turning off all women within a 50 foot radius of me.
• The Double Dutch Dork: I spot some females with which I would like to dance next to me.  I look in their direction, slowly start to move in, but at the last second I jump back.  “It didn’t look right!” I say to myself.  I try again, get real close…then jump back.  “She wasn’t looking.”  And this pattern keeps repeating itself like a kid who doesn’t want to jump rope until either the girls leave or I go to the bathroom.
• Ants In My Pants: occurs when I realize I’m doing Jimmy The Snitch with my feet.  I immediately pick my leg up and slide to the side in an attempt to look like I know what I’m doing.  I then quickly lift up the other leg and slide to the other side to finish the move.  This goes on for 15 seconds or so until I realize I look even stupider moving my legs like a jackass and revert back to Jimmy The Snitch.
• The Moon Bounce: happens when I’m in my group of friends and the chorus of an upbeat song comes on.  As soon as the chorus starts I start jumping up and down with a big smile on my face and one arm raised in the sky.  In my mind I’m starting a trend that everyone will start doing, but in reality I’m the only one jumping and spilling beer everywhere.  Luckily this only goes on for five seconds or so because I’m in such bad shape I have about five bounces in me before I turn red, fall over and look like a beached whale huffing for air and cooing while slumped on the dance floor.
• The Frightened Hawk: only occurs from Jimmy The Snitch position.  I wiggle around in my concrete shoes while I scour the dance floor for someone I would like to dance with.  I eventually spot someone about 25 feet away.  I attempt to make eye contact with her and when I do I immediately turn away like I didn’t mean to.  I glance around the room for ten seconds and then stare right back at her until she makes eye contact again and I turn away again.  If this happens four times or so I feel like she’s into me, but in reality she’s just having a good time doing her thing except for this weird guy in the corner who keeps staring at her all night and the only reason she keeps looking his way is to be able to give the cops a thorough description of me so they know who to give the restraining order to.

So as you can see, ladies and gentlemen, I need help.  So, I implore you, intervene me!  If I’m missing a dancing opportunity grab my shoulder, slap me in the forehead and point out what I’m missing.  If you know better dance moves you can teach me grab my shoulder, slap me in the forehead and show me how to get my groove back (actually I never had it, so just show me how not to look like a Whitey McWhiterson).  And most importantly if you see me successfully dancing with beautiful women and showing off incredible dance moves…don’t wake me up…such a wonderful dream.

Thank you for helping.

XOXOXO,

Bryan “Three Left Feet” Fraker