It's apparently not enough for you to be nearly as handsome, athletic, clever and genitally-fortified as Denny Dance.
No, you had to go and make the worst song to happen to the male species since Marvin Gaye
Lately, the icy questions come at me fast and angry:
"Denny, why don't you ever say those perfect things to me like Bruno Mars does in his song?
"Denny, you don't ever tell me that my eyes, my eyes make the stars look like they're not shining."
"Denny, have you ever said there's not a thing that you would change when you see my face?"
"Denny, how come you haven't said to me that when I smile the whole world stops and stares for awhile?"
And what is Denny Dance supposed to say? That nary a single one applies to them in even the remotest sense? I think all that would get Denny is a swift knee to the Jimmy--and not in a good way.
The sad truth is, I could sit in Monk-like isolation with a quill pen and writing pad for 17 fucking years and not come up with even a syllable toward something as panty-droppingly perfect as the sweet tome for our time that you--the Morris Day of 2010--have bequeathed to an undeserving human race.
Even I'm starting to shout your name while in the throes of passion's elegant thunder--and sometimes even when I'm with another person.
So, if you'd be so kind as to stop what you're doing, The Danceman--and every other male not named you--would be most grateful.
Don't make us order the code red.