Move Over Paula Abdul

Last night I was fortunate enough to go to an NBA game. Not just go, I had a seat in the fifth row. Before I knew it, something came over me.

Fuck! Who knew that by grabbing some bimbo cheerleader's little outfit, jumping into it and running out onto the court with the rest of the little bitches you could get in so much trouble?

Once "My" number was over, I was ushered off the floor. Immediately, I knew I was in trouble. The pushing, the shoving, the unspeakable names they were calling me. Suddenly I realized it wasn't Security that had grabbed me. No, it was much worse. I was surrounded by the remaining Royal Court Dancers.

You would've thought I had yelled "Bomb!" in a TSA line.

It's not like I didn't have the dance routine down. Hell, I practiced for weeks.

Were they demanding that I tell them what I did with Tiffany? Nope, not at all. All they wanted to know was, who did my makeup and how did I perfect the moves they had been working on for months!

After fruitless hours of interrogation, they weakened from their own mal-nourishment. One by one, they fell into a heap of sequence and tassels. It wasn't pretty.

I got out of there with just a few scratches, but for a moment I couldn't help but think of Tiffany. Would anybody find her? Would anybody care? Would the duct tape leave a rash?

Fuck Tiffany, for a moment, I was a STAR!