Gut Feelings.
I dated a belly dancer a few years back. It was disgusting; bile and all sorts of liquids squirting all over the place. But she was never happier than when she was twirling across the dance floor with a bloated stomach flopping around in her hands.
“Why can’t you do some proper form of dance like ballet,” I would ask her, “or that clowing/crumping thing they do in that movie I can’t remember the name of?”
“Shut up,” she would reply, “and hand me that plate of spaghetti. I go on in ten minutes and it’s nowhere near digested.”
She ended up marrying a butcher. I ran into him one day when I was buying a kielbasa. He said she died in Beunos Aires, performing a tango with a haggis. He gave me a discount.
I think his name was Henry.
