Fellow concertgoers: you get high-fives. Musical performers: I’m gonna give you some high-fives. These United States of America: you get high-fives. India in the house!: here’s some high-fives for you. For everybody who’s ever been in love: I brought you these dual high-fives. Ronnie: you get high-fives! Sheila: high-fives! To all the firefights: please accept these high-fives of respect! Dear Mama: high-fives of love. All the West Side: HIGH-FIVES! YOU: HIGH-FIVES! EVERYBODY, GOD, THE UNIVERSE, ALL OF THAT: HIGH-FIVES!!!!!!!!!!

He looks like a regular dude, but He’s actually commander of an army of conquistador dancers descended over centuries from conquistador dancing royalty. He doesn’t even have a name. He is simply “He.” Before going to the concert, He asked his second-in-command, Him, about preparations for this glorious day. “Is this as tight as you could make them?” He asked. “It is as tight as the shorts would tighten!” Him replied. “And my tattoo markings? Are they sufficiently doodled in the Magna Doodle manner that I prefer?” “They are, sire. They are splendid!” Him assured He. He looked in the mirror and nodded decisively. “Very well,” He said, hiking up his stretchy shorts, “then this will be an auspicious day of dancing indeed.” And it was.