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3774goth-fu
Nov. 11th, 2005 04:51 pm11 Nov. 6:28 am
HILARIOUS!
Indigo ([info]kalischild) wrote,
@ 2005-11-08 09:59:00
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Current mood: amused
Current music: "One", Metallica
Really, I have no idea what the hell is wrong with my brain. This is a
retelling of a brief incident that occurred last night at a local San
Francisco dance club. If you've ever wondered how I actually see the
world, this is a window into the twisted methods I use to prevent
myself from becoming homicidally bored.
Goths of the world, I bear sad news; we have a new enemy in club-land.
He is more painful to the eyes than Too-Much-Yet-Not-Enough-PVC girl.
He is more repulsive than even Dances-With-Structural-Supports boy.
We knew him only as... Napoleon.
-o-
Last night, I was at Death Guild with a female friend. She just
happens to be hotter than Georgia asphalt. Now, at one point (as will
happen), my friend was dancing. And at one point, (as will happen), a
boy started dancing at her.
Now, every girl reading this understood immediately what I'm talking
about; some of you guys are probably scratching your heads, trying to
look innocent, and wondering aloud what the difference between dancing
with and at someone could be. That's because all of you boys are
disgusting creepy stalkers who occasionally spend an entire evening
following a girl across the dance floor, looking at them in a way
that's meant to be all sultry and brooding. Don't fool yourself,
Romeo; that look just screams "Hi! I live with my mom! Sometimes I
still wet the bed. Don't mind me, I just want to kill you". You can
try to pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about, but that's
just because if you were to admit to knowing what I'm talking about,
you'd be admitting that you're sometimes just as creepy as every other
boy. But don't worry, guys; girls understand that being a creepy
psycho stalker comes naturally to boys; they know it, they accept it,
they know that you're only human.
But this boy was like nothing human.
The man that slid like a plaid, polyester oil slick across the dance
floor towards my friend had the moves of Barry Manilow, and the hair
of Richard Simmons. Even from a distance I could tell that he had the
social skills of a dead, syphillic tortoise decomposing in the sun.
He was immediately assigned the nom-de-guerre "Napoleon Dorkemite"
And he had completely focused on my friend.
Twisting through the crowd like a hideous polyester dervish, Napoleon
sprawled towards her with all the grace and elegance of Keith Richards
on an ether binge; he swooped and gyrated around her, leading his mad
dance almost entirely with his crotch. In the space of thirty seconds,
he had stepped on her feet forty-seven times, spilled her drink, and
brought with him a cloud of body odor powerful enough to singe my nose
hairs from ten feet away. It was as if Steven Hawking had been living
in a barrel with a family of muskrats for a year before being
miraculously tapped to replace an aging Patrick Swayze for the role of
the dance instructor in Dirty Dancing III: The Nerds Dance Back.
My friend (who is a bit of a scrapper under normal circumstances) was
stunned into immobility. As she stood there paralyzed, her new friend
continued his hideous interpretive dance of lust. For a handful of
seconds, she stood there, frozen; a scantily-clad deer in the
headlights of the Dorkemite's unholy desire. I watched helplessly from
ten feet away as her face contorted with multiple incompatible facial
expressions; Fear, disgust, and an almost desperate amusement warred
with her offended sensibilities as she desperately rooted through her
inventory of previous clubland experiences for a response, I could see
her mentally scrambling for an appropriate reaction to the one-man
disco atrocity that had unleashed himself upon her.
But in the end, she really never had a choice.
Like a deer, she broke and ran, screaming like a little girl.
(Editor's Note: If you've never seen a deer run screaming like a
little girl, we respectfully suggest that you need to do more acid,
and spend some quality time hanging out naked in the Berkeley Hills.)
She found me, and we fled.
An hour later, after a great deal of recovery time (drinking), we
returned to the dance floor. That ill-considered choice was very
nearly our doom.
It's mot like we were thoughtless; after carefully scouting out the
dance floor, we found a safe, remote corner far away from our last
confirmed sighting of Napoleon Dorkemite.
As warily as frightened forest creatures, we began to dance, gradually
losing ourselves in the ebb and flow of that one fucking song that
we've all danced to every Monday night for approximately seven
thousand years; our Goth zen was restored; all was right in the club.
We were fools. And like the fool represented in the Tarot, we had
almost danced obliviously to our doom.
Lost in the melodrama of an outdated synthesizer riff, I executed a
seventh-level Cockroach Stomp-half-twist-spin with a wavy-wavy
dismount (European style). As I completed the technique, I turned
towards my friend, barely in time to see a gangling, Afro-coifed
scarecrow lunging towards her from behind. She must have noticed my
facial expression, or maybe it was just my shrill, incessant
screaming. Regardless, at the last moment she staggered out of the way
of the path of the meat-seeking polyester pants missile, leaving me to
stand face-to-face with Napoleon Dorkemite.
Now. A bit of historical information for the younger Goths, and for my
more emotionally well-adjusted readers who actually went to college
and got real jobs instead of spending the last dew years slumming in
Goth clubs: If you haven't been a part of the Goth culture since that
fateful day on which we gathered together and invented the color
black, you may not be aware that Gothic club dancing is more than just
a dance, and more than simply a mating ritual. Gothic club dancing is
actually a relic of an ancient time, a time before Hot Topic, a time
when Goths actually had to fight in order to survive and hang out at
the mall. Goth club dancing is actually descended from an ancient
martial art; an art whose lethality and effectiveness is comparable
only to the martial arts style of "Gun-Kata" demonstrated in the film
Equilibrium.
There are many skilled in these techniques as a general rule, the more
Goth you are, the greater your skill.
And in case you're wondering, I am... \m/ GOTH AS FUCK \m/!!!
Now, normally, using Goth-Fu against a non-Goth is forbidden. The
sheer passive-aggressiveness of true Goth-Fu makes it absolutely
devastating to the uninitiated; because of it's sheer ankle-wrenching
awesomeness, it's use is sanctioned only against equally
passive-aggressive cultural groups, such as California Department of
Motor Vehicle employees.
(Editor's Note: If you've never seen a Goth engage in a
passive-aggressive dance-off against a disgruntled California
Department of Motor Vehicle employee, we respectfully suggest you
crawl out from under your rock and live a little. It happens all the
time.)
Knowing this, and acknowledging my Terrible responsibility, I was
conflicted for a moment; I had sworn to use my superpowers only for
the pursuit of sex; my friend was like a sister to me. (Then again,
we're both Southerners by birth, so that really wouldn't stop us even
if we were blood relatives; then again, being from South Carolina,
we're probably at least first cousins anyway...). My mind was reeling
due to the moral conundrum I had been placed in, but as I saw Napoleon
slowly grind-humping his way up my screaming friend's leg, I realized
that he had left me with no choice but to unleash the full extent of
my power; nearly two decades of brooding in ill-lit Goth clubs had
prepared me to unleash a metric ass-ton of passive-aggressive
vengeance all over his rayon-and-polyester-clad butt.
Reaching deep into my past, to I time I had tried desperately to
forget, I found the calm, still place from which all ridiculously
melodramatic Goth dancing comes. The patterns flowed through me like
the words of a rejection letter from someone you were about to dump
anyway. I rehearsed the katas of cockblocking in my mind; The
look-to-the-left-kick-to-the-right ankle stomp, the
wavy-wavy-sigh-inverted-bitchslap (Australian Rules); and the
forbidden "dreadlocks-to-yo'-ugly-face" hair flip. I rehearsed the
steps of our combat; I observed his pace and timing. And gradually,
the upcoming conflict unfolded in my mind.
It was exactly like the tea house scene in Hero, except I'm much cuter
then Jet Li, and it wasn't raining inside the club.
Finally, fully prepared, I unleashed a black velvet blast of the raw,
passive-aggressive pettiness than is...
Goth-Fu.
And then Napoleon Dorkemite ate me alive.
It was like fighting smoke. It was like trying to get a tight grip on
a greased weasel. For every bitch move I pulled, he had a counter; for
every action I committed to he had a reaction already set in motion.
He was impossible to block, impossible to corner. It was like a poem
of passive-aggressive angst. It was like trying to date a Suicide
Girl. There were times that I believe Napoleon defied the very laws of
physics as he slid effortlessly past me in his to smoothly resume
dryhumping my friend in the middle of the Death Guild dance floor.
He defied belief. At one point, he was literally sitting on my shoulders.
His Dork-Fu was strong; he was a master of Sleaze Style.
I wish I could say that in the end I triumphed, that I somehow reached
deep into my core and heard my dead master's voice whispering some
forgotten technique in my ear, a sequence of moves that eventually led
me to a sudden, surprising victory. But my master, the man who taught
me Goth-Fu, isn't even dead; he lives in a doublewide on the outskirts
of Ranch Cordova, because my master chose to spend his twenties and
thirties going to Goth clubs instead of furthering his education. So
now my master works at Wal-Mart, has three kids, and is recently
divorced from his wife, a chubby former Central Valley Beauty Queen
with a third nipple.
But I digress.
In the end I did what any red-blooded Ameican male would do when
confronted by the ravishment of a woman of his acquaintance; I left
her to fend for herself while I got a cocktail and looked for
Security. Once the cavalry arrived, we returned to the bar to do
shots. As the Burly, Teutonic security dragged our hapless horn dog
into the open air, we followed them outside and enjoyed the spectacle
as they dragged Napoleon into an alley and beat him savagely with
rubber batons.
Let that be a lesson to him. There'll be no messing with the women
folk when I'm around.
But, once again, a warning my friends: I don't think we've seen the
last of our Mr. Dorkemite; this nimble club troll, this one man
throwback to the seduction techniques of 1977. If you encounter him do
not attempt to resist, and call security immediately...
His Sleaze-Fu is strong. He lurks in the darkness. His polyester
glistens in the shadows.
His name... is Ninjapoleon Dorkemite.
You have been warned.
