This weekend as I was extolling the merits of a Bar with a jukebox, a misguided and terrifyingly youthful person attempted to force me to dance. This was not a dance-bar, or an anthro, or club, or discotheque, cotillion, ball, dance, danse, recital or strip-club. Nothing about this watering hole spoke "Dance" to me, but there i was, being prodded by someone who had obviously no idea what a drag dancing is to me. As is often the case, my academic godfather, Mr. Stephen Fry suffers from the same affliction, and also suffers from danceless music syndrome as well as an unhealthy love of the Swedish group ABBA.
I'll allow the master to say it hisself: