Ballerina Attack
So, the Monkey Attack Victim doesn't know the five positions.
See, I took ballet when I was about 5 for one horrible day. I had dreams of being a ballerina. I was small and skinny with long limbs. I enjoyed spinning. I thought I would look really cute in a tutu. But my dreams would soon be crushed.
My mom dropped me off at my ballet class at the train depot/community center. I hurried to class where my future as a ballerina awaited, as well as all of my friends. I took my place next to my current BFF and began talking about whatever it is that 5 year olds talk about. Evil Ballet Teacher yelled at me to stop talking and to work on my turnout or something. So I tried to focus on my ballet skillz building, but soon had more things to share with my BFF. Evil Ballet teacher had apparently lost her patience with the FIVE year old not showing proper ballerina behavior and locked me in the closet for the remainder of the class. Yes. Locked me in the closet.
During my time in the dark closet, I let my dream of being a world renowned ballerina die. I was released from the closet knowing I would never learn how to spin properly. I would never learn my positions. I was instead faced with a life devoid of grace. A life filled with monkey attacks, falls of the diving board, barbed wire collisions and many trips and falls.
See what has become of me Evil Ballet Teacher!
posted by Kelly @ 12:06 PM
4 Comments:
Don't let Dursley! Ballet Teacher getcha down.
In a perfect world, traumatic events occur so as to cripple your belief in your own personal abilities, negating your chances of performing the act again and causing further harm to yourself and/or others or personal embarrassment. Its Darwinism at it’s finest. It’s the natural order of things. It’s the way that things should be. It is what has kept mankind functioning as a top species for this long. Jocks have no business trying to solve complex mathematical equations; they could rupture a vessel in their head and die or accidentally send the space shuttle to the sun. Geeks have no business trying their hand at extreme sports; liquefying your internal organs because you saw Tony Hawk do a 900 and you’ve done it like a be-jillion times on Tony Hawk’s Underground is a stupid reason to die. (Though, if this didn’t happen in real life, eBaum’s wouldn’t have half the content that it does.)
That said, there are a few of us who believe this line of thinking is pure crap. (Not the nice kind either. The sticky, nasty kind. I suppose that “caca” would be a better word here.) There are some of us who have watched the freeride mountain bike videos and thought, “Yeah, I can do that.” One would assume that after two broken teeth, three concussions, a broken collarbone, a destroyed ulnar nerve, a near devastating MSRA staph infection and every bursa ruptured in their joins, one would take a hint from the divine and sell the goddamn bike. But no. Never. That would mean that the world, conventional wisdom and “natural order of things” won. And I would never that happen. To hell with that. Take your conventional wisdom, shine it up real nice, keep shining and shining, getting all of that slobber off. Then turn that sumbitch sideways and stick it straight up your candy ass.
Anyway. If it were me, I would learn my five positions, Google this bitch, drive my ass back to Pineland, put on a tutu and run into where this harlot is staying and throw down on her. It doesn’t matter where. Her house, Wal-Mart, McDonnalds, the middle of an intersection. Just jump out like some kind of deranged monkey at go at her. And when you’re done, follow that up with, “Bitch… you got served!!”
Wow.
Wow, indeed. Someone had a big slice of grouchy pie this morning.
No. Just the vision of you running into a Walmart with tights and a tutu and tracking this 90 year old woman down in the meat department and dancing your ass of in front of her while she's holding a brisket and then screaming, "Ooooo. You got served!" and then running away gave me a small chuckle.
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