Zoot Suitings and the no-pants zasm-dance


The music slithered from the speakers like a frickin’ jungle snake. A soulful anaconda that slunk up his movin’ and groovin’ anus and constricted his spiritual gonads until they oozed sweet, sweet melodius nectar that flowed out and down the inside of his hairy flanks, pooling in his sleek Italian leather loafers. The fluid squishiggered around his dainty toes, freshly pedicured, and as the mood juice filtered back in through his wide, hoofy pores, his toes began to flitter-gas-flopp-gus.

The flitter-gas-flopp-gussin’ journeyed on up, and got his ankles jam doggin’.

His ankles jam dogged further still and his shins started donker-honking.

All that donker-honking sweet talked his  knees into a real heavy zumbulation.

Zumbulating on up, kicking them thighs into a bad woppa-whomba that made his hips stand up and go, “Sweet Jeezum with them corn fries, Wade!”

All this super serious movement and his gastric sauce began to seriously boil over, sending bubbles of sick and sticky goopanooba floating up his gullet. And he frickin’ burped, “hot the damn sandwich!” And he frickin’ burped again, “holy mother of agglutinative pleasure!” And like a rucksackin’ dufflebag full of heavy lascivious cream that fell off a roof and splashed on the pavement sending all the citizens, who moments before were just going about their whatever, sending them all now into a real chubby mother of an arousing. Nobody was safe from his gambolic intensitudinous coulis. Minds were blowing like they was a rhumbatic tornado in a sambatic hurricane.

Man, this guy can move! Man, this dude’s a dancer! If only they could put him on teevee! He’d be a millionaire!


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