Scott and I watch a lot of infomercials. Recently he bought me a package of Sham-Wows, which was a Happy Valentine’s Day indeed, because if I ever spill 2 litres of Diet Coke into my carpet I want to be ready. And the Sham-Wow does the work for you. It’s like a chamois, a towel, and a sponge.
You know what else happens in a lot in infomercials? Exercising. Man, do they ever exercise. And for some reason they like to exercise by doing endless pelvic tucks.
What the hell is with the pelvic tucks? I don’t think there’s a single pose the human body can make that upsets me quite as much as a standing pelvic tuck.
You ever go to a jazz club? There’s always a pelvic tuck man in a jazz club. Look for a middle-aged balding dude with a tiny ponytail and a sport jacket. Invariably he’ll be gyrating against a drunken female who’s either wearing way too much gold jewelry, or who’s 22. That dude always spreads his knees way far apart and tucks his pelvis under and then he kind of shimmies up and down. He sticks out his chin and squints into her eyes with a horrible little coy smile, one hand on her bum while his other waves along, sort of to the beat. That guy makes me queasy.
Message to everyone: NO MORE PELVIC TUCKS.