I don’t know about you, but I’m known far and wide as a guy that can cut a rug. Not literally. I’ve never actually sliced into any rugs, but I bet I’d be pretty good at that, too, considering how handy I am with knives.
I can cut a rug in the sense that I can dance like a mofo. Ever since I was little, I’ve had rhythm in me. Everyone used to call me Lil’ Josephine Baker because I liked to shake it everywhere I went, plus I once made a skirt out of bananas. My favorite place to hoof it was the market. One time, I was dancing up a storm in the produce section and I knocked into a huge display of apples. Those Red Delicious came tumbling down, but that didn’t stop little Creedy. No sir. I just kept on twirling and juking and the apples became my dance floor. When I was finished, the whole store applauded, except for the manager, who called the police.
Not to toot my own horn or anything, especially because my horn is pretty dusty and might make everyone sick if I tooted it, but I’m pretty sure I invented break dancing. I used to have my neighbor bang out a beat on his kick drum while I tried to spin around on my back. At the time, I did it to get dizzy. In retrospect, it’s pretty clear to me that I was inventing a new style of dance.
I’ve got a pair of dancing shoes that are made out of magic. They’ve got a black and white checker pattern on them and I bought them from a Serbian flutist who needed some cash to get his flute out of hock. From the minute I put them on, I felt like my feet had a mind of their own. They just tap-tap-tap to their own beat and I do my best to keep up. For a while, I thought the guy put Mexican jumping beans in the heels, but I checked and there aren’t any beans in those shoes. Not unless I decide to put them there and, as of right now, I have no interest in doing so.
The only place I won’t dance for fun is on people’s graves. I dance on people’s graves for disrespect purposes only and nothing more.