Ice Folly

Today I watched one of my neighbors, a morbidly obese man with a severe follicle impairment and a capacity for neighborly goodwill akin to that found in the brown-shirted white supremacists of 60 years ago, walk out of his garage to attend to the solid sheet of ice that stretched the entire length of his driveway. Within seconds, he had launched into a frantic dance routine that could not have been better if Fred Astaire had choreographed it himself, complete with acrobatic feats of aerodynamic ability that would have been impressive if performed by Olympian waifs let alone a man of his size. As a finale, he dropped into what only could be described as a “suicide crouch” while he slid down his driveway doing two complete 360 degree rotations before finally landing face down in the slush at the curb.

Dispositionary attributes aside, this man is no Tonya Harding but I feel that an amateur ice performance score of 9.872 was not entirely uncalled for. I would have scored higher if he had taken his mousey wife down with him.