So I mention the fact that I just re-watched Flashdance to Kirkbride. Not only that but it then “What a Feeling” was on the radio today in some kind of evil Flashdance attack. So I head banged a little to it, whatever, and told Kirkbride. He sends back this image that he whipped up:

Well his first comment on the image when confronted about it was: “I couldn’t match your super sunlight face with Beal’s beautiful olive skin, but it gets the point across near majestically.” And now you see why I love Kirkbride. But I realized that spurred on by this image I needed to write a new version of Flashdance, starring me. So here it is:

I’m a welder by day. Fuckers. But by night? I dance to the rhythm. The rhythm that is gonna get you. Fucking count on it. It’ll get you with a .45 between the shoulder blades and leave you cold on the ground like a fucking cheap ass whore after a long hard night of pissing off her pimp. Don’t EVER fuck with the rhythm, bitches.

And don’t think I can’t dance.

I can dance like Sammy Davis being dope-slapped by the hand of God. I can dance like Patrick Swayze, if he wasn’t white and was sorta maybe hip. Hells yes, I can dance, motherfuckers. That’s why I make the big bucks.

Do I strip? No. I dance. I dance interpretive dances, German based mostly, sometimes stylized takes on the Eddas and Sagas of Norway. It depends on how much time I have to do my make-up. Last week I recaptured the spirit of 1940 cartooning using only red face paint, a potato sack and Flock of Seagulls hit Telecommunication. I can dance, bitches. I can dance.

Still, I am also a welder. I weld things. Metal things. I weld them to other metal things and the welding makes them stick. Sometimes I cut them apart. It’s not easy work, the cutting and the sticking and the hot and the metal. But I do it. I’m a welder. I weld.

The other week I started to date my boss. Sure it’s wrong and kind of creepy, but who cares? I felt like it. She saw me dance. Then she saw me weld. Now we’re dating. Do the math yourself. While we were talking I mentioned that I always wanted to dance professionally. Not the way I dance now, no, that would make a lick or two of sense. No I wanted to dance ballet. A type of dance I show no real aptitude for, have no training in and don’t really get. But I think it’s pretty. So I decided I want to do it. Fuck you, I can do it if I want. Except, you know, I couldn’t.

Those bastards want training, they want someone who knows what they’re doing! Fuck them and their stupid school. I went to the club that night and did an impressionary take of Beowolf wearing a mermaid outfit to show Grendel’s isolation, all set to The Weather Girls It’s Raining Men. Fuck them.

My boss bought me an audition anyway. That bitch used her shit right and got me set-up. So of course I threw my whiskey at her, punched her lights out and left her. Fucking bitch, who does she think she is waving money around to solve my problems. I’ll show her, I’ll show them all. I’ll go to their audition, the one I hate, that I only made because of that bitch’s money and I’ll… well, they’ll see. They’ll all fucking see.

I showed up. I danced. Hell, I took my welding torch in, too, and I welded some stuff. I showed off my leg warmers and I downed some whiskey. Then I held up a match and blew fire at those motherfuckers. I set them on fire. Judge that, assholes.

When the screaming died they started to tap their feet to my musical choice, Wham!’s Wham Rap. Fuck right they did. One of them was slow, off-beat, I welded his foot. The rest got the message. They let me in. I’m gonna learn ballet. Like no other son of a bitch on Earth, I’m gonna be a dancer. A dancer like you’ve never seen.

Fuck yeah.