From the Case Files of Three Sheets to the Wind, or How to Dance with a Socialist.

by Angela K. Durden
Technology inventor protecting creator's copyrights. Business writer, novelist, songwriter, and Citizen Journalist.

Picture taken by my good friend and singer and piano player extraordinaire, Amy Alice Wilson.

So there I am. Found myself dancing with this fella who I quickly found out was more than a little drunk. To make matters worse, he had no rhythm whatsoever. So my feelings were already hurt because he was wasting my time. But you know what? Fine. The Chamblee Tuckers Band was good and what's the harm, so I kept on dancing.

His feet kept getting tangled up in mine and acting like it was all a goof and such fun. But then he really proceeded to make me mad. He tried to snatch my hat and swap it with his cap. Oh, hell to the nah! We wrestled for it for a few seconds because that was my hat and he had not asked permission. When I said no, that's when I knew he was a Socialist because he proceeded to say —

"Hey! It's the RULE! Yagottaswap."

By this time, we aren't dancing anymore. Onlookers might have thought we were having an intimate moment as I polished his belt buckle on the dance floor. Onlookers would've been wrong.

Trying to avoid his staggering feet, I leaned in real close, squeezed hard on fingers still gripping my hat, and I explained the wrongness of the concept of imminent domain — 

"You best let go of my hat or you will find yourself on the floor after I give you a beat down."

Still staring hard at him, he blinked a couple of times indicating he was processing the truthfulness and severity of my negotiating position concerning property rights. He let go and backed away. Nodding and, using big gestures, he drew a line between us and said, "Okay. I now know the line. I won't cross it." 

I acknowledged his understanding with a "Ya better!" and then he grabbed my hands and we were off to the races again. That is when my friend Amy took the picture above. But the fella was drunk and as he swung me around in a fashion I did not like, I tried to remove myself from his grip. But he said words that made me realize just how much of a Socialist he really was. He said — 

"Please don't let go. If you do, Immagonnafall."

I got one hand free, his eyes went big and scared, and he started to tilt backward at an alarming rate. I grabbed him and held him steady. He bobbed his head in a huge "Thankee kindly, Mum" that was fit for the Queen of England.

Later he wanted a picture with me and my two friends and him, but he kept missing the button to make his camera click until finally, with smiles plastered on our faces, I said — let's be more accurate, shall I? — I commanded — 

"Hit the damn button, fergodssake!"

Geez, I hate dancing with Socialists, but I am grateful for the stories they provide.