As I’ve mentioned before, Mr. Shakes and I are addicted to So You Think You Can Dance, mainly because it’s got lots of just great, compelling, beautiful dancing on it by real dancers, but also because it provides us with the opportunity to guess how long it would take our graceless fat asses to learn each routine, and whether we’d actually die trying. It’s truly pathetic how much we love this show, and it has Mr. Shakes convinced—convinced!—that we are going to take dance lessons. He’s got it in his head that it would be tootally awesoome if we could whip out an unexpected paso doble at a wedding some day. Well, yeah, that would be awesome, but we’re both inelegant klutznutz, he’s got no rhythm, and I have nerve damage that’s left me with a numb foot. Walking is sustained performance art for me, and he wants me to samba. Sure.
Anyway, one thing about SYTYCD is that it has this ridiculous theme song that’s just the same little snippet of music played over and over and over. It’s played at the beginning of the show, while they’re introducing the dancers, going to commercial, coming back from commercial, and at the end of the show. Last night during the show, Mr. Shakes mentioned: “You knoo, they really need to get a loonger bit oof music instead oof joost repeating that wee jingle oontil I want to kill myself.” Which totally made me laugh, naturally.
Later, we’re lying in bed, and both of us are restless and not falling asleep, but we’re both trying to, and I couldn’t help myself: “Nah nah nah. Chooka chooka chooka. Nah nah nah. Chooka chooka chooka. Nah nah nah. Chooka chooka chooka.” (That sounded like the theme in real life, I swear.)
Mr. Shakes burst out laughing. “Soo you think you can dance!” he sung.
I said, “Don’t you mean: So you think you can DANCE!!!” hitting the last word with a loud, guttural, robot voice, just like it is on the show.
This sent us both into gales of giggles. I did it again: “So you think you can DANCE!!!”
Mr. Shakes started howling. “It’s like they’ve goot Charlootte Choorch singing the first bit, and then Napalm Death cooming in foor the big finish.” He put on the most angelic girly voice he could muster to sing: “So you think that you can—” Napalm Death voice: “DANCE!!!”
I did the same: “So you believe that you have an ability to…DANCE!!!”
Mr. Shakes again: “So you are informing me that you have a capacity for…DANCE!!!”
Me again: “So to my understanding you are suffering from the misapprehension that you have a talent for…DANCE!!!”
The entire bed shook with our laughter. “My throat hurt on that one,” I said.
“Mine hoorts, too,” said Mr. Shakes.
“Napalm is bad for the larynx,” I said.
Mr. Shakes guffawed. “I doon’t want to goo tae sleep. I want to stay oop talking to ye all night.”
“I know,” I said. “Stupid adulthood.”
We said our goodnights, again, and endeavored to try to fall to sleep, again.
Both of us were still restless. I couldn’t help it.
“So you think you can DANCE!!!”