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“He is two legs truly a-twitter.”
Michael Flatley is a large hunk of rendered fat that condensed and hardened in the British Isles. As a young blob of shortening, Flatley was frequently lacking things to do. He tried the game of Jacks, but he absorbed the ball every time. The game of tag was horribly ineffective. Other childhood games seemd rather childish to him. One day, once he became a decent margarine stick, various local misplaced black people began to teach him to dance. The specific dance that Flatley took to was the Crip walk. Of course, Flatley, being both rendered and processed fat and extremely white, could only make the walk look something like a bird unsuccessfully taking flight.
edit The Dance of The Lard
edit The Riverdance
Flatley, just after learning to 'dance', takes this walk and teaches it to 55 other random Irish people, however, unlike the black people, who danced in disarray, Flatley decided to line these people up so as each one can make an apparent ass of themselves. He called this the Riverdance, because, of course, they practised in the local river. That river now belongs to Tom Cruise, as the site for his next movie, Being Short and Staying Short: A True story. Incidentally, Cruise, too, is an accomplished savant in the art of Riverdancing, in addition to Scientology, Couch dancing, and ogre slaying.
edit Saving The Last Dance
As an aging, and curdling (somehow), chunk of butter, or something, Sir Michael Flatley (for he was knighted shotly after the Dance Dance Revolution), fell incredibly ill, with, some doctors believe, a rare and fatal disease. On his death bed, Flately, at the tender age of 13 hours, 43.6 minutes, danced just one last time. No, YOU won't get to see, or even know, what exactly his dance was. For so mesmerizing was his final dance that any, ANY, observers instantly melted and, having so melted, hardened into little, fleshly lumps. Needless to say the devestation was complete.
Many were the mourners for such a talented lump of congealed lard; equally many were the imitators who immediately sprang to place, in order, among other things, to fill the void so left. Needless to say, none succeeded. On a more pleasant note, medical logic now confirms that butter, indeed, causes spontaenious-tibetan-cyclopsLeprosy; so, it can be sapiently deduced, that Flately is, indeed, trying to kill us from beyond the grave. Oh, that Flatley- ever so mischiveous, ever so playful.
edit Flatley and Flutes
Flatley loves flutes. He loves Rudell and Rose flutes and loves bidding on them whenever they come up for auction using his massive unending pile of money, forcing the price up by several thousand pounds. The bastard then repairs and renovates them and plays them fucking perfectly in front of hordes of adoring fans with such straight-up hard-core perfect intonation and articulation that causes other flautists to simply explode from the grief of their pathetic attempts at playing. What a prick.