Dance Club

I went to a dance club the other night very much against my will. I wasn't driving. There you are, stuck in a... I go to dance clubs, you know, about once a year just to justify the other 364 days of the year I spend in my apartment going, "God, what idiots!" And uh... takes about one day to fill my hump. I'm like a camel. I go to the dance clubs, fill my hump with hate... I can go about a year. Then the hump starts to go down. I go back to the dance club. Fill my hump of hate and I'm off again. I'm the Hate Camel. Don't you see how that...

What am I doing here, you know? Anyway, this girl asked me to dance which really cracked me up. "Would you like to dance?" And I was like, "Oh, you read my fucking mind." You know? That's why I'm leaning in the darkest corner closest to the exit. You know, I, uh... I'm about to boogie. I'm about to cut a rug.

But it's so weird. Women have this weird myth, you can tell how a man is in bed by how he is on a dance floor. I think that's ludicrous, man. And what does it matter anyway? You know what I mean? If a guy's on a dance floor really getting into it and enjoying himself and expressing himself, what does it matter how he is in bed? He's gay! Real men don't dance. They sit, sweat and curse.