File This One Under WTF

So my good friend and Silhouette Romantic Suspense author extraordinaire Sharron McClellan hopped a plane the other week for a last-minute visit to chez moi. Which was way fun, except for the fact that I was still mostly an invalid after attempting to poison myself and nearly dying of barfness. We went out to lunch her first day in FL and I was all, "You know, I'd give you some options for stuff to do, but I think I just need to go sit down somewhere and look pale and wan."

Fortunately, Sharron is low-maintenance, so this was perfectly OK with her.

On her last night in town, we filled up our wine glasses, sat on the couch, and started absently flipping TV channels while chatting. When lo and behold, what did we see on the Tivo guide but a show called Pants Off Dance Off.

Well, of COURSE we were wicked curious, so we turned it on. (Hey, it sounded more interesting than "101 Fish that Look Like Rocks" on the Discovery Channel.) And found that it's probably the most accurately named show on television. Basically, people take their pants and everything else off, and they dance.

And that's it.

I think there's some cursory voting on the Internet, but I didn't really see any evidence that said people win prizes or anything. Apparently, they go on the show for the sheer joy of shaking their naked groove thing in a crappy little studio in front of what you KNOW has to be the sleaziest camera dude EVAH. As one fiercely intelligent young woman said as she commenced dancing and pantsing, "This show is SOOOOOO me!"

So yeah, that's all they do: They dance to some horrid music, strip down to their underwear, and then their show goes strictly to the Internet where they strip off even those little scraps of material to get jiggly with it online. Sharron and I watched in horror, but for some unfathomable reason, we did NOT CHANGE THE CHANNEL. For two hours (Yes, two. Shut up.) it was just one naked, gelatinous train wreck after another, and we could take our stupefied eyes off it. Here's what my living room sounded like that evening:

"Oh, no he did NOT just do that!"

"OHHHHH! I SO did not need to see that?"

"AUUGGGHHHH! The TV GUIDE! Hit the TV guide button so you can hide some of that!"

"Please, please be wearing boxers---OHHHH! He's not wearing boxers!"

"NOOOOOOO! Not a clown!"

Yes, dear readers, there was, indeed, a clown. A brightly painted, happy little circus clown with a rainbow 'fro, striped tights, a puffy shirt, and balloon pants. And yes, she stripped. Right down to her garishly striped garter belt and polka dot bikini underwear. I didn't check the Internet, but Sharron did and reported that (oh, God, I can barely type this) the clown got naked.

Fortunately, Sharron's retinas are still intact because Pants Off Dance Off blurs out the naughty bits even online. But the clown debacle served to affirm my steadfast pledge to never, ever have a clown at one of my kids' birthdays. Clowns scare me anyway, but that .... that was just sick and wrong. I'm still having garishly striped nightmares.

Was it hot? In most cases, no. There was one guy who was fairly cute, but then he opened his mouth to speak and spoiled it. ("I like to dance. I dance good.") I think what kept us watching was sheer amazement that this creepalicious show seemed to have absolutely no problem finding people who wanted to take their pants off and dance naked on television for no apparent reason other than that "this show is SOOOOO me!" Oh, yes, it provided much snark fodder, too.

People are weird.