We start off with a lovely couple sitting on a couch. They’re decked out in late 50’s/early 60’s attire, that boring and innocent time just before it hit the fan and everybody started taking drugs and having sex with anything that moved. They appear to be watching TV, then the guy makes a weird smirk (probably shouldn’t do that anymore, not attractive at all) and then leaps up to slap off the TV. The girl just looks at him in shock, because nobody did anything spontaneous in those days.
He turns on the record player, and this causes both of them to completely lose control. Next thing you know, they’ve shoved the couch up against the wall and are dancing away. (See, your grandparents were right, Rock and Roll is of the devil and can lead to reckless furniture rearrangement.) Josh suddenly appears, bellowing the song. Personally, I’d be a little leery of strangers vocalizing in my house, but the couple doesn’t seem to mind.
They bop for a little bit, with all that twirly crap that always seemed like too much work to me, the woman grinning like somebody splashed Fresca on her panty shield. The guy thrusts the woman in the air, and I guess he saw something inspiring because he starts to take his clothes off. (The girl looks a wee bit startled, wondering if perhaps she shimmied too much at the wrong time. Momma always warned her about doing that.)
Lo and behold, it seems they are both wearing hippie drag under their Eisenhower clothing, and the accessories in the room suddenly update to stoner gear. Now the couple is doing those odd, self-involved dances that people did when they had drugs for breakfast. They wave their arms and try to channel Mother Earth, along with her daughters, Doobie and Bong. (For the record, Josh’s clothes don’t change, so either there was a budget issue or he’s lazy.)
The interpretive dance continues for a bit, as the couple celebrates long hair, granny glasses and the absence of bras. Then the girl leads the next wardrobe change, slinkily ripping off her top and transforming them into 70’s disco dancers. Now the dance is a tribute to excessive polyester and hair spray. (The girl’s hair could qualify for its own zip code.) They strut to the end of the room and out into a hallway, where they perform some interesting choreography that indicates the drugs are not completely out of their systems.
They line-dance into a bedroom, where Josh is sitting in a chair and still not explaining his presence. The couple continues to not care about the intrusion, doing some more dance moves which seem to center on airing out their armpits. They also point with their fingers in random directions, so they might be giving somebody directions, but it’s not clear. (Perhaps they’re trying to show Josh the door, but they just can’t remember where it is.)
Suddenly, the girl has had enough synchronized foreplay, throws the guy on the bed, and then straddles him. (She’s come a long way, baby.) Josh gets a gander at this steaminess and skedaddles out of the room. I don’t know why. The couple hasn’t had a problem with him watching everything else.
But instead of any salacious activity, we have another costume change. Now the duo is wearing punk outfits with lots of bright colors. Relieved, Josh comes back in the room and warbles some more while the couple does a strange dance where they kick each other. (That doesn’t look like something you would do in a healthy relationship, but they seem to be having a good time.) They then do some aerobics, followed by some of those robotic dances that everyone thought was cool in the 80’s but really just meant we were stupid and bored.
The couple marches back to the living room, were we now seem to be in the current day. They wander back to the couch and then just kind of old each other, because nobody really dances anymore, what with the way the economy is and all. But people DO still get horny, and the girl throws the guy on the couch and straddles him once more.
Josh makes a “what the heck” gesture, turns out the lights so the lusty couple can bump uglies in privacy and darkness, and then leaves. Which is kind of rude, really. If you’re going to come up in my house and sing for no apparent reason, the least you can do is toss me a beer on your way out the door…
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