I Am a Dance Dance Revolutionary

Glitter on, shimmering lights of Palace Park Amusements in Irvine, California. Shine as the midsummer's moon. Radiate upon the delighted children's faces as I step up to the DDR machine. My pockets are laden with tokens. The revolution has come.

Faces twist from delight to fear and back again. Whispering throngs coalesce around the booming altar of bass. My moves are unprecidented. Who is this, the stranger from the East? How is it that his phat funky grooves do not obliterate the very coin-operated arcade machine from whence the rhythms flow? Can he maintain this level of energy, or more aptly, can this level of energy hope to maintain him? He is the revolution.

They only fear that which they cannot dance.

Oh yes, I have come. I am the Dance Dance Revolutionary. I have come for your dancers. No one will be spared. Bring me your finest as meat goes into the grinder. I shall dance them. Who so ever will stand against the will of the music? Just look at trodden who dare speak of themselves in competitive terms!

Espcially you, Chango. We've met before. But when we last crossed paths within the blinking bowels of Fountain Valley Family Fun Center, I was but a neophyte. Note now my enormous pants, custom-tailored to hide my vicious knee drop moves until it is too late! The awesome fury of my patented butterfly spin or backward bar lift is brought to a stunning resolution due to the sheer volume of my pantlegs, each large enough to contain my entire body should the revolution overcome me. PREPARE TO SUCCUMB HELPLESSLY TO MY FUNKY FRESH GROOVE, Chango! I will RIP YOUR BELLY OPEN and DEVOUR the partially digested contents contained within!

I am the Dance Dance Revolutionary.

When I move ... it's a movement.

Victim Pic Small

Observe! Observe the raving fans as they coalesce around my expert rhythm -- whoa -- whoa, hang on -- I seem to have fallen into the crotch of my pants and I can't get out.

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