Dancing with the 'Tards, Part 2

Women, you are no exception. While I will grant that a lot of females can get away with a hell of a lot more than most men in a club, some of your behavior is equally ridiculous and more than worthy of my scorn. 

I have already referred to one of the more common subtypes: the Weekend Whorrior. This is the girl who, during the workaday hours of sunlight, is respectable and perniciously judgmental, like most women. She'll criticize any other random girl's fashion sense and morality at the drop of a Prada, and by "random" I mean any and every other being with a vagina, including her best friends. But when the sun sets, like a B-movie trope, she transforms into that which she supposedly loathes: a slut. Donning the shortest shorts or skirt she can legally wear and a top that would be best described as "a paper towel with strings, and not a very big one at that," she will jump on the dance-floor, proceeding to shake whatever her momma (and McDonald's) gave her in a way that makes Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan appear reticently saintlike. 

Right up there with Mother Theresa. 

Even the questionable, sweaty foreign guy will not be exempt from the Weekend Whorrior's indiscriminate grinding. She's out for bodily fluids. In the process, she'll likely flash her thong, kiss another girl, and probably pantomime assorted sex-acts with varying degrees of accuracy. Whether or not she can actually dance, the message is clear: I am an object. A horny, wasted object that wants attention. Treat me as such. But, hey, they're chicks, so it's all good. Much like the guy whose mouth is writing checks that his ass can't cash, her mouth is writing . . . admission vouchers that her cootch won't honor? Doesn't have quite the same ring to it, I know, but you get the point: her gyrations are no guarantee of gratification (alliteration is fun, whee!). Or, alternately, if she does assent to doing inappropriate things to you, just consider how many guys she does this with every weekend. Sure, you were both drunk, but that doesn't make her any less pregnant in the morning or your urethra burn any less, does it?

And let us not forget MTV Girl. Again, I have already referred to her in Part 1, but let's take a closer look. MTV Girl takes her cues from, not surprisingly, music videos (perhaps I should call her MTV9 Girl, since that's where you may actually find videos). The problem? She lacks a number of things that people like Beyonce, Katy Perry, Rihanna, and Shakira have going for them, such as (1) a professional choreographer, (2) a team of GQ-ish backup dancers, (3) natural talent, (4) a body sculpted by the gods, presumably to masturbate to, (5) flattering cinematography and lighting, (6) Michael Bay directing, and (7) being famous, and thus able to get away with shit that just doesn't fly in the real world. Yes, somehow when those girls bend over and shake, it's not only sexy, but in some mind-numbingly back-asswards way cool.

What you think you look like. 

The reality. Yeah, sweet. 

I can't explain it, yet I know it when I see it. More to the point, I know when I don't see it. That's where you come in, MTV Girl. I have seen otherwise implausibly hot women vaporize their sex appeal faster than Superman staring down a doughnut with his heat vision simply by attempting some move they picked up from Britney Spears (you know, before she got prego, blown-out, and went certifiably nuckin-futs). Of course, this is because, deep down in the depths of their ovaries, most clubbing women suffer from Aryan Bro syndrome.

While we're on the subject of Caucasians, I cannot overlook the phenomenon of Super-White Groupthink. This is a curious occurrence that I'm sure you have all witnessed, yet I believe myself to be the first to diagnose it as a genetic disorder. 

It's not lupus. 

Simply put, Super-White Groupthink is a special (read: extra retarded) kind of mob mentality that arises only in white people, triggered by very specific stimuli. The most obvious ones are what I like to call, appropriately, "White People Songs." These are songs composed and performed by actual Negroes for the benefit of the Man, presumably as some sort of cross-cultural outreach program or act of pity. "The Cupid Shuffle" and "The Cha-Cha Slide" are two excellent examples, in that they explicitly tell you how to dance to them, because you, as a rhythmically-disadvantaged cracker, would be utterly lost otherwise. Seriously, Google "song that tells you" and see what pops up. For Christ's sake, Google even preempts you and takes you to the most-searched-for answer. Super-White Groupthink dictates that, the second the first note of these songs plays, every white person in the house will be overcome by the inexorable urge to leap to their clumsy feet and flock to the floor. There, they can prove to the world once and for all that they can dance, so long as a black person is giving them step-by-step instructions.

Don't believe Super-White Groupthink is real? Just try playing Journey's “Don't Stop Believing” and see if this doesn't happen.

That's what I thought.