Samba

Samba should always be like sex, only with louder music, and better choreography. Last night, though, a guy in his feather-suit, beautiful, ostrich and peacock, an arc twelve feet high and twelve feet wide of gorgeous white and black and gray, but then it started to slip, and our stomachs tensed, and he danced and it slipped and he danced and it slipped and he barely stayed upright and our stomachs got tenser and tenser until we had to go outside for a cigarette, and not in a good way, either.

Moral of the Day: Always double-check the snaps on your feather-suit.