This may be a prank, a Jackass-ready bit of public performance with Spike Jonze or some other relative youngster dressed up in old-age makeup trying to make everyone around uncomfortable with such youthful limber moves. But what if it’s not? What if this really is some old coot with incredible hips that never age, a kind of eternal, perpetual hip movement machine engineered by scientists with a little help from Nordic gods? What THEN!? What, indeed. We don’t have an answer for that, either.
“We were all like, ‘Who’s that kid with the racing stripes on his jacket’ and the kid started moving and his moves said, ‘THAT’S who the kid with the racing stripes on his jacket is.’
“None of us could argue with that, so we just watched and hooted and praised his name, which we did not know.”
– Stunned onlooker who declined to give his name
When you are in the desert, starving and dying of thirst, and someone gives you a canteen of water, you will gulp it down and swear it’s the best water you ever had.
Same goes for entertainment when you’re sitting, bored, waiting for a show to start.
Listen, James, if it was up to me, I’d hop on a plane myself and get it done, but I can’t.
You’re going to have to do it. I’m entrusting you, James, with this mission.
Now, I know that they’re your friends and that you like to hang out, but I need you to be a professional here. I need you to stand next to them at the Kenny Chesney show and as soon as they start wiggling and flailing and moving their upper limbs like goddamned used car lot inflatable wind puppets you need to show them.
Do it quickly. Do it well. Show them how to dance at a concert because if you don’t, the brass are going to have my ass on a pike outside the Pentagon and you, me and this whole operation will have failed.
Make me proud, James. School those sloppy shimmy dorks how to really dance. Just stand next to them and blow their fucking minds with that magic you’ve got in those well-oiled joints of yours.
Do it for me, but more importantly, James, do it for your country.
When he danced, this Man of Squeal, someone yelled out, “What’s your Kryptonite?”
As he grabbed his crotch and thrusted, he yelled back, “When someone turns off the music!”
We’ve always wanted to see Monsters of Concert Dance, but now that we’ve seen it, we are too awed to go on and on about it.
While you were texting and nodding your head at the band, this man was p0wning your unwrinkled ASS.
You didn’t even know it.
Starting at about 0:28, we begin to see the way the universe was created out of chaos, not with a gigantic explosion, but with a modest little bit of popping.