“Daddy, what are Apple Bottom Jeans?”

There can be nothing sweeter than taking your little girl to a Daddy/Daughter Dance, right? I mean, as far as purity goes, there’s the Virgin Mary, Columbian cocaine purchased locally in Bogota, and the Daddy/Daughter Dance.

Allow me to set the scene for those of you who like to apply a visual to my misery.

Weirdo is in her little ball gown, she’s got her hair and nails did (as the kids say – I am pretty hip for a middle-aged white dude, if I must say…Word.), and there’s even a dab of make-up and a sprinkling of glitter (I could do an entire other post on make-up and glitter – stripper staples – but I’m trying really hard to focus here, and you are not helping with your snickering. Ass).

I’ve got on a nice suit. I have meticulously styled what is left of a hairline that is retreating across my scalp faster than Marion Jones with a six needles pin-cushioned in her posterior. I’m happy. We take pictures for mom. Good times.

At the dance, held at the local middle school, the gymnasium is decorated in white lights and balloon arrangements. Weirdo grips my hand tightly with excitement as a big grin spreads across her face. She is excited and, you know what, I am too. I’ve got a strong feeling that we’ll beat last year’s endurance record of dancing to one song, eating two cookies and then going home to see mommy.

We get in line to get our picture taken and since we arrived early, in just a little less time than the average Pope is in power, we are on our way to the gym to hoof it up to the likes of Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus, the JoBros and HSM. That’s the Jonas Brothers and High School Musical for those of you I lost on the last couple references (He is so damn hip…).

Things start off good. They play a nice Carrie Underwood tune. We dance to it, which consists of my swinging Weirdo around in a circle and tossing her between my legs. It sort of looks like two uncoordinated people tried to recreate a Gap commercial on YouTube, but, hey, we are genuinely having fun, and that is all that matters!

As the song comes to a close the DJ, a rumpled looking fellow in his forties wearing a shirt I can only guess he removed from the glove compartment as he pulled into the parking lot, announces he’s taking requests.

Great! I ask Weirdo what she wants to hear. She wants a little Hannah Montana. By God, I go get her some HM (I’ll go out on a limb and guess you have caught on to the initials by now. Hip.). We get some HM. Solid.

Songs ends. Next song starts. It’s ‘Low” by Flo-Rida. I shit you not. For those of you not indoctrinated to the Flo-Rida catalogue of street poetry, here is a sampling of the lyrics:

Shawty had them Apple Bottom Jeans
Boots with the fur
The whole club was lookin at her
She hit the flo
Next thing you know
Shawty got low low low low low low low low

Them baggy sweat pants
And the Reeboks with the straps
She turned around and gave that big booty a smack
She hit the flo
Next thing you know
Shawty got low low low low low low low low

If you hit the word “Shawty,” got lost and never found your way back to the Rant Train, allow me to bring you up to speed on what has just transpired.

On the third song of the pure as a newborn baby Daddy/Daughter Dance, the DJ dropped a record about a stripper. I can’t make this stuff up, folks.

I quickly suggest we get a cookie from the cafeteria and Weirdo thankfully consents. She’s no fool. That’s a bonus sweet. You’d have to be an idiot to pass up that opportunity. And since I am not raising idiots, she grabs my hand and we are off.

As we are heading across the gym toward an exit, I am craning my neck in every direction trying to find someone to exchange “WTF?” looks with or at the very least has noticed what the song is about and is similarly making a hasty retreat. But, here’s the thing, not a single other father so much as flinches.

You ever see the movie Blade? You know the opening scene where the unsuspecting dude is at this underground club and all of the sudden blood starts squirting from the sprinkler system, but no one seems to notice but him. Kinda like that…except that no one tried to bite me and I’m reasonably certain there were no bi-curious vampires making out in the corner. Then again, it was pretty dark, so don’t hold me to that.

After trying to discuss this with 3 or 4 dads in the cafeteria and unsuccessfully finding anyone who had any clue what I was talking about (but further cementing my hipness superiority), I finally violated the no-mommy mandate for the evening and called my wife. I had to talk to someone about what just happened.

Seriously, what the hell is with people? At least the cookies were freaking unbelievable. Weirdo and I must have eaten like 3 a piece.

Err, I mean, we split one, hon.

Damn he’s smooth…