Wine Up Your Bumpa?

No offense to the Jamaicans in the house, but, er, uh…

I HATE REGGAE!

Naw, I’m serious. I can’t deal with it. I won’t listen to it and I cringe everytime I go out with my friend Tamara cuz she’s always trying to find the reggae room when we go out.

When she finds it, she looks at me and smiles. I point to my watch, reminding her that we both have kids at home. Her eyes light up and like the good friend that I am, I frown and follow her to the spot, to sit sadly in the corner and watch her gyrate like a hand mixer in a bowl of cake batter.

I hate sitting in here. I hate listening to this and worst of all I hate watching these limber hoes wine their bottoms.

Why?

Man…

~taking off mask~

Cuz I can’t dance a lick.

Yeah I’ll admit it. I’m the only Black woman I know who can’t dance at all.

With hip hop, you can fake it. You can bop. You can nod your head. Throw them bows. Brush your shoulders off. But with reggae, you have to have rhythm . Which I don’t have.

~singing~ We are a part of the RHYTHMLESS NATION…

I can’t keep the beat. I get tired after three ass wiggles. I have had men WALK AWAY FROM ME on the dance floor.

Countless times.

~hangs head in shame~

I don’t know what happened to me. All my friends can dance. I LOOK like I can dance. But I missed that gene somehow. ~wiping tears away~

So I’m often reduced to being the purse holder in the club. The geek at the table watching the drinks. The buck toothed nerd looking sad, waiting for the reggae set to end.

And that’s why I turn you down when you ask me to dance.

Cuz I can’t. And I’m tired of embarrassing myself. ~pouting~

So leave me alone! That’s why I hate men anyway! Get on my damn nerves…