The belly dancer

Notwithstanding the bed moving debacle yesterday, we still managed to enjoy the evening at a lovely lebanese place with a hard-to-pronounce (and easily forgotten) name (don't ask, I forgot).

Just prior to our meals arriving, the obligatory belly dancer came out of the kitchen to the sound of loud lebanese music. I'm not entirely sure what food handling and safety laws she might have infringed from (presumably) getting changed into her skimpy outfit in the kitchen, but I was careful to watch for suspect curly hairs in my samakeg harrah afterwards.


I don't want to come across as being harsh (kudos to her for having the guts to show off her plentiful cellulite and muffin top) but the belly dancer was a little bit on the disappointing side. Let's just say that she was no Shakira (whom, I've been told is not all that shit hot as a belly dancer either).

The whole time she was gyrating to the lebanese music, all I could think about was that dreadful milkshake song by Kelis. She made her way from table to table, wobbling her butt, trying to get the audience to participate. And as the lyrics to that awful (but catchy) tune rang through my head ("My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard..."), some poor bastard decided to get up and join in (..."and their like, it's better than yours..."). He wobbled around aimlessly (..."Damn right...") trying to imitate the 'professional' ("...it's better than yours...."). Pulsing and gyrating, wobbling his gut. It was a terrible sight to behold ("...I can teach you,...but I'll have to charge"). And all I could think about, at that moment, was "Thank GOD I had the foresight to sit in the corner".