Because that naggy bitch can’t dance!
Oh goodness, I’m JOKING. Of course nobody deserves to get cheated on by their
bloat-faced, aging, douchey, deadbeat, stubby-dicked, famewhore husband whose Ed Hardy/cheap chick midlife crisis has shamed us all spouse.
But seriously, bitch can’t dance. And after watching that segment, it appears to me that she actually sucks more at learning.
I know what you might be about to say: “But Diana, have a little compassion! Do you understand what kind of pressure she must be under? Have you ever tried to learn a dance in a week with absolutely no idea what you’re doing and some crazy militant teacher losing their shit? It’s difficult!”
Of fucking course I’ve had to do that. I am from a Hardass Asian Family. Come on.
When I was in fifth grade, my cousin Jennifer–who had just enrolled at my school–convinced me to enter the talent show with her. We auditioned with a fairly simple step-touch routine set to Debbie Gibson’s “Only In My Dreams,” which I choreographed myself (I even included a partner lift and an “improv your own solo by feeling the beat” section at the bridge, for more zazzle). Excited as hell to finally make our mark on the elementary student body, we practiced daily for hours.
A week before the big night, Jennifer pulled out. Stage fright. I was faced with the decision to pull out or do the routine alone (How do you do a lift alone, I ask you?). Frankly, the simple routine was boring without the zazzle, and I was too angry to choose either option. This was our chance to make our mark, dammit!
My oldest sister, the Hardest-Ass of my four, happened to be visiting that week from med school. She and her sorority sisters had just won a statewide dance competition with a complex routine set to a 4-minute custom track that included sections of Paula Abdul’s “Cold Hearted Snake” and Janet Jackson’s “Rhythm Nation.” The professional choreographer they’d hired had cribbed most of the steps from the original music videos. The dance was awesome. It made you gasp to watch.
My sister decided that I would learn her awesome routine and wow the talent show audience alone. And she would teach me.
Mind you, I entered fifth grade at the age of 8. By the time of the show I was probably 9. Michael Darrin’s sexy, Fosse-esque moves did not come naturally to my little limbs. But my sister pressed on with six days, five days, four days, three days left to go. She landed on a teaching technique where she counted aloud and rapped the beat with her knuckles on the wall so stridently that it felt like it the songs rumbled through my sternum. “One, two, three, STEP! One, two, three, DIP! Turn, step, FALL TO THE GROUND, LOOK TO THE LEFT! EYES! EYES!”
Two days before the show, I broke down completely. My legs ached, my mind ached, I couldn’t perfect whatever needed to be perfected in the time alotted. I hated my sister. I hated my cousin. I hated myself. I had an intense fit of kicking walls and bawling in the center of the room. “I quit,” I heaved in between sobs. “I don’t wanna do it anymore, I quit.”
My sister stood, unmoved, over my small frame for almost an hour as my angry outburst faded into embarrassed whimpering. When I finally looked into her eyes, she didn’t say, “You can do it!” and give me a hug. She said, “Okay. Let’s do it.” She pressed play on the cassette. And readied her knuckles for the wall.
On the night of the show. I didn’t miss a step or a glance. And I made my mark.
So yeah. When I look at Kate Gosselin wimping her way through that measly little DWTS jump-jive routine I can only think: “Lady, just do it.”
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