The man detected a return of his symptoms, and thereby requested
a Relapse Dance, from the exotic dancer. After his cardiologist diagnosed yet a
new condition, the man ordered a Mitral Valve Prolapse Dance. For a while, the
man tried to live with this condition, but after a fainting spell, he asked for
a Collapse Dance. Conventional therapy didn’t work, surgery ensued, and
afterwards, the man sought a Laparoscopic Dance. The man reflected on his life,
at one of them, ehhh, express kiosk dingies, with one of them, ehhh, gigantic
muffins the size of a bowling ball; on the way home, he inquired about an
Elapse Dance. Meantime, the dancer was running out of interpretations, to suit
the man’s spectrum of exotica. “Seeing as I’m the only exotic dancer in this
gosh-forsaken one-Walmart town,” she thought, “I gotta get me a new perspective,
or at least, a wee bitteen of religion.” On the occasion of a-wandering about,
she discovered a church, a place of well-scrubbed worshippers, the Loofah-rans.
Its well-known founder, Martin Loofah, had been a friar, he had been the deep
fryer, deep friar of the fries, down at Mickey Dee’s, so he knew about boiling
oil, heat rash, and grease trap—just the kind of expertise a lost soul might
seek from her spiritual advisor. There were saints and sinners, winners and
loofahs, according to the church’s doctrine. After a spell in residence at
services, the dancer began to “loofah thy neighbor”, even as she tittered under
the electric light, some serious giggle-wattage. She decided to help the man—who
requested her interpretive dances—to reform himself, in the holy house of the
Loofah-rans. She might even perform a L’apse dance, there, wielding some bawdy
wash.
