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Dance Revolution

M was President-for-Life, but on the inside, he was a dancer. Though his hair had silvered beneath his trademark Napoleonic bicorn, M still relished gyrating his plump middle-aged body to music.

On La Fête Nationale, M delivered an impassioned speech from the palace balcony and then tap-danced to the roar of his minions, helping them overlook the perpetual State of Emergency and the recent disappearance of a Nobel laureate.

At the following week's UN conference in New York, M stole the show by bounding out of his titanium-reinforced limo to breakdance with tattooed American youths on the sidewalk.

Back home, when the French legation stopped by, M leapt off his throne and stunningly executed thirty-two consecutive fouettés, matching Baryshnikov's legendary Swan Lake performance at the Ballet Russe.

Everyone present agreed M was "magnifique."

At his last cabinet meeting, as the citizens of his emirate rattled the palace's gold-plated gates, M hopped onto the marble table and performed a grand jeté of such grace that the bickering stopped. When the crowd surged into the compound, M and his mother were whisked away in a black helicopter from the palace roof.

In Geneva, M was despondent for months. Then the call came from America. Flown incognito to Hollywood, M found himself backstage dressed as a gaucho ready to compete on Dancing With The Stars.

On stage, he stuck his fat purple nose into the heaving cleavage of an American she-devil and tangoed with all his heart.

Story by:

Mike DiChristina

mfdichristina@gmail.com

submitted at 1:56am

28 March 2012