Sep. 1st, 2013

ravenhart: (bewildered)
Newt and (lets call her...Chique. Yeah. Short for Xochiquetzal. Should be pronounce "KeeKah" but I like the Americanized version Sheek) Chique came over to visit and watch "Drunk History", and "Duck Commander" with me. Which meant that Chique and I good naturedly provoked (bullied) Newt into going and getting some whiskey for our tea. I don't drink that much anymore, and whiskey is a bit iffy even though I am Irish and it is distilled. Woe. Seems I may have wheat allergies. But...in the spirit of adventure we unanimously decided to chance it. (No reactions, btw. Yay.)

We got on the topic of the Miley Cyrus snafluggle. None of us have television. I have Internet access and a Roku, which is brilliant, but can't watch regular tv, and they don't have anything yet because they just moved. Long story short, we missed the VMA's and so missed the dance.

I had heard the term 'twerking' but other than a mild annoyance at the word (it twerks me off) I had no idea what the dance was.

Fueled by a bit of whiskey and his innate sense of showmanship, Newt stood up and began to demonstrate how it's done. Of course, there were compelling pauses mid-twerk for special emphasis, with additional significant looks and eye rolls thrown in for good measure. He also twerks as if he is Irish dancing, meaning that his arms dangle down. He almost looked as if he were an unusually expressive Neanderthal searching for food with an unfortunate butt twitch.

Chique and I were rolling. Literally holding our stomachs and rolling from side to side in our seats.

That's how their visits go. When I say 'that's how we roll' I mean it.

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