Come on, Shake Your Body

Who doesn’t remember the latino music craze? With it’s hyperactive drum line and unrecognizable foreign lyrics that gave a feeling of yeah, I really am sophisticated, yet oh so sexy. Gloria Estefan said it best, “You can’t control yourself any longer”, and no Gloria, we couldn’t. Who wouldn’t want to bring back those times when everything seemed right in the world and a man was only measured by the size of his beauty mole.

At the heathen Albright College, we are required to take three semesters of a foreign language. That is, unless for some weird reason you are already fluent in a foreign language, or you take German or Italian (don’t ask me to explain that one). So basically I was just an idiot and fell into the whole spanish speaking peer pressure because I thought the native tongue of Enrique Iglesias would better seduce “the ladies” more then say, the native tongue of Hitler.

One control device that the crazy language professors at Albright use on their helpless students is the oral exam. It is a torturous device in where one memorizes a bunch of questions and recites them like a trained monkey for a grade. However, this time something a little cooler happened. We were allowed to pick a situation to act out in front of the class. My group picked the ever so sweet spanish talk show option, in where we would pretend to be a spanish superstar from our last chapter. So naturally, with my skills, I went with the king of latino pop music, the one, the only, Ricky Martin.

I worked hard to fit into my role. I studied up on my Ricky-isums, watched his music videos, listened to his music in both english and espanol, and of course, spiked my hair up so I could become his uglier Siamese Twin who was left without the common sense portion of the brain after the separation surgery. Even after all this work, my transformation just didn’t seem complete. Some how I wanted to bring back the magic that Ricky helped create, and that’s when it dawned on me. If I truly had the latino beat pulsing through my veins, I had to let it out. I had to dance.

Late into the night, I comprised a thirty second dance routine to the chorus of livin la vida loca that I thought would make ricky himself weep. I knew there was no way anyone in my spanish class would be able to mistake the raging latino bull that lay dormant inside me. Finally the latino craze would return to the US of A and punch all of this politics in the face.

Well, today was the day that I was to perform. I was introduced, the hot latino music began to play, and my lucious hips began to move instinctively to the beat. I poured my soul into my thirty second dance, yet the reaction was less then I’d hoped. Instead of getting laughter or gasps of amazement, all I saw were stares of, “what the heck he is doing?” I guess they’ve never seen a raging latino bull before. Oh well, this is what happens when you learn all your dance moves from Napoleon Dynamite. So needless to say, I think I’ve lost all my street cred in that class. Eh, whatever. Vote for Pedro!

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