If the fact that you were once a male stripper doesn’t have anything to do with why I’m at your house right now, then I don’t need to know. I’m sure you’re a really good dancer, I don’t need to see firsthand that you’ve still got the moves. And if you’re going to ignore me and dance anyway, for the love of all that is holy, don’t show me the move that includes you smelling your fingers. Button your shirt up and get back inside the house. I’m willing to bet the bong your ex-wife smashed isn’t your only one. Go take advantage of this state’s liberal medication laws and don’t call me again unless you promise not to dance anymore where I can see you.

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