I have little patience for a couple of things, among them, unreasonable people and disillusioned assholes. (Which are often the same person or thing.)  I also hate events or people that interrupt my carefree nights. It can be a perfectly and accidentally spilled drink, really shitty DJs, or stupid girls on boxes who can’t dance for shit.

I will NEVER do this with my SO. Luckily for these two, it was dark.

Perhaps you’ve been Some Place, where they have black painted boxes of wood tucked away into the corners of the dancefloor. Gathering place for empty glasses? No. Dance boxes. Yes! Meant for dancing. Meant to be danced on. Meant to be danced on by good dancers.

The expectations were high for Holy Cow on Friday night because P.Hood was home for Thanksgiving, and someone told me that drinks were half off on Thursdays and Fridays. +5 points (The latter is true, though the time period didn’t meet our slow-to-get-going carpools.) Holy Cow is cool and casual, but with surprisingly good-looking people. I expect good-looking people in San Francisco to overdo their make-up and line up outside of Ruby Skye, not crowd into the wood-and-cowhide (literally) interior of Holy Cow. It was a really fun place, with a huge portion of my favorability due to the fantastic DJs. (Though they did not take our request for “Ditty,” even when we wrote them a love note on a napkin.) -2 points

XOXO, Brooklyn

When there’s great music, you’ll find me dancin’, and on this night, I was out with some of my favorite dancing friends. We were having a great time reuniting and celebrating being together, when we noticed, in the far corner of the room, taking up space alongside “Tupac“ (who is there every week), were these two bad dancing ho bitches.

I hate bad dancing ho bitches. These two were Asian, wearing tops that border the categories of holiday dinner with your parents or kind of dressy clubbing clothes. Like, the stuff that stands somewhere between Forever 21 and bebe. So basically, if you washed their shirts, the diamante appliques would fall off and all the ruching would lose its shape. Face-wise they were cute. Not pretty, not gorgeous, not hot, just cute. Body-wise they were average. But like I said, they were Asian, so all the San Francisco guys in the crowd who love they Asians were probably satisfied. Since most of them were probably plastered, they were probably super satisfied. In so many words, they were your average girls, nothing about them was memorable.

Except for how GOD-AWFUL their dancing was.

They were those girls in college who ran down the dorm hallway in their boxers. Who cried when they couldn’t find files on their computers. Who went to class in Victoria’s Secret Pink PJs and yet still had the minimum amount of awakeness to pull on Uggs and an Abercrombie scarf. Save for being really annoying and probably having high-pitched voices, they were nondescript.

On the box, they writhed. And they lip-synced when they obviously didn’t know the words. Tupac, the good sport that he is, incorporated them into his improv lip-syncing act, but they were either oblivious to him or how to appropriately play along.

Girls who writhe – by no surprise – annoy me. Girls freaking girls just screams tacky, desperate ho. If your goal is to rub up on some stranger by the end of the night, well, then you know what to do. But similar to standing by your own actions, you gotta be ready to be called a slut.

Call me crazy, but I believe that you can be a good dancer on a dancefloor. It’s not an issue of having trained at the ballet barre; it’s an issue of knowing rhythm and intersplicing creativity into megamixes and mash-ups. I’m not even talking battling. I’m talking not writhing! Is it so hard, so difficult, to not be so bad at being sexy? Girl-on-girl action is so tired!

I speak from the experience of spending weekends at The Vault and never once being pulled off. One particular night, a girl named Jill climbed onto the box and yelled in my ear, “OH MY GOD! I LOVE YOUR DANCING! I TOLD MY GIRLFRIENDS WHEN SHE GOES UP ON THE BOX AGAIN I’M GONNA DANCE WITH HER!” Even in her extremely sloshy state, she was still fun to be up on the box with because she was not rubbing up on me, she was playing to the crowd, and she was not dancing like a Pussycat Doll reject.

To fix the problem of the Holy Cow Bad Dancing Ho Bitches, we made a plan to get them off the box. It was much easier than I expected, because sometimes you just can’t tell how bad a Bad Dancing Ho Bitch is. I battled a Samoan once. I feared for my life. Who knows? Maybe their fugly Forever 21 diamantes were actually knives, at the ready for the shanking.

Not bothering to acknowledge the BDHBs, We helped P.Hood, our Guest of Honor, up onto the box. Tupac seemed to eagerly welcome some new faces. Perhaps BDHB 1 had some degree of consciousness, because BDHB 1 stepped down. P.Hood was dancing great and continued to do so. Tupac pulled up another one of our girls. BDHB 2 stepped down. Success!

And in less than three minutes, it was over. We had saved the world of Holy Cow from Bad Dancing Ho Bitch Disease – the most contagious eyesore to ever fall upon your grand night out.