I’ve been a Dancing with the Stars enthusiast since the first episode aired back in 2005 and in all those years of live television I’ve not witnessed a single embarrassing wardrobe malfunction. It’s an awe-inspiring phenomenon that never ceases to amaze me: all those well-endowed females gyrating in skimpy outfits and never an exposed boob or butt cheek to speak of. Then I did it. I said YES to the dress and… Suddenly
…and nobody puts Charlie a corner either…
RIP Patrick Swayze, your legacy lives on in unlikely places!
If you happen to catch a glimpse of me walking down the street, the words Look! It’s Quasimodo! probably won’t be the first to pop into your head. Apparently, however, that won’t be the case if you happen to catch a glimpse of me dancing.
I haven’t actually seen myself dance, but apparently once the music cues and I execute my first cha, I undergo a metamorphosis which takes me from Dancing Housewife to hybrid version of a twerking Niki Minaj and deformed bell ringer
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