Two-Steppin’, dead computers and the butcher dance

My bridal management has been asking me to dance for almost 40 years. I always reply, “I don’t sing, I don’t dance, and I don’t play a team sport.” I don’t mind holding her and swaying to the music, but I just never learned to dance.

The only dance I know is the butcher dance, but more on that later.

I’ve danced and undressed several times when I had more bees in my clothes than outside. I danced while hitting my thumb with a hammer, but that has no dignity and no place for a partner.

When I think about it, I’ve seen people in bars do the hammer dance, but who cares when drunk people dance?

Anyway, last week I decided that I should learn to dance. We watched a tutorial and every time I walk past her in the kitchen I’m working on my two-step.

I’d always worried about stepping on her toes, the physical ones, not the metaphorical ones. The tutorial said it’s YOUR job to keep her toes out of the way, not my job to dodge them.

That makes it easier.

For the past two days my computer has been dead or on strike. I’ve believed for years that computers live and control our lives. Still, I was surprised at how difficult it was to write without one. I even tried to use the management’s laptop. It just didn’t feel right. Today I am close to the deadline and the computer is alive again and helping.

As someone who names everything, why have I not named this intelligence in a box on my desk? I laugh at anyone with an iPhone and accuse them of having at least forty percent of their brains in their phone. I will have to re-evaluate ME. Especially my relationship with this box.

I realized years ago that it listens to me and reports to a higher power.

For some reason I get a lot of ads for women’s makeup. I think they came from this trans joke I made.

Last week I made a rude comment about how some STDs are transmitted and wondered why people would do that. The next day I received an ad for a porn video. This computer has never seen porn unless it saw something while I wasn’t here. Maybe there is computer porn that computers watch and share.

I need to name my computer and establish a relationship with it.

On the other hand, the less it knows about me, the less it can interfere.

So goes the story of the butcher dance. There was a dance professor who decided to record every dance known on earth.

He spent his life traveling and recording dances. Just as he thought he had documented every dance, he heard about a tribe of natives performing the butcher dance.

He traveled into the rainforest, paddled a canoe miles up the river, made his way through the forest, climbed a mountain and found the tribe.

They confirmed that they were indeed performing the Sacred Butcher Dance and agreed to let him record it. The problem was that they only performed the butcher dance on the vernal equinox, which had just passed. The researcher went down the mountain, through the forest, down the Amazon and home.

The next year he traveled into the rainforest, paddled a canoe miles up the river, weaved his way through the forest, climbed a mountain, found the tribe on the day of the equinox BUT they had just finished the dance. He went down the mountain, through the forest, down the Amazon and home.

The next year he traveled into the rainforest, paddled a canoe miles up the river, weaved his way through the forest, scaled a mountain, found the tribe on the equinox just as the butcher’s dance was about to begin.

The celebrations before the dance came to an end. The tribe solemnly assembled and lined up. The chief raised his hands and sang, “You butcher your right foot, you butcher your right foot, you butcher your left foot and you…”



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