The economy’s in the shitter so you can’t afford all your extra perks anymore. First and foremost is your Dance Boy. Give him the pink slip!
“Check out this new move,” your Dance Boy will say when you enter the 10,000 square foot studio you built exclusively for him. He’ll get up on his toes and spin once. It will be a really pedestrian move and he’ll kind of stumble at the end of it.
“That was great,” tell him. “But I have some bad news.”
“Wait,” he’ll say. “Check this out.”
Your Dance Boy will bob his head like he’s leaning up against a wall, absently grooving to a tune. It can barely even be called dancing.
“I need you to listen to me, Garret,” tell your Dance Boy. “I can’t afford you anymore.”
Your Dance Boy will grab a tee shirt and pull it on. Then he’ll find his underwear and pants, turning his back to you while he dresses.
“They’ll kill me out there you know,” he’ll say.
“You’ve never said who’s after you,” tell him. “After all these years, why won’t you tell me.”
Your Dance Boy will wave away your concern. “If you knew who they were they’d have to come for you too.”
He’ll ties his sneakers and start packing a back.
“You know I’d keep you forever if I could,” tell him. “But I just can’t afford to be so extravagant as to have a boy in the house who just lays around naked, occasionally getting up off the floor to groove a bit. Really, I thought you’d have learned some more steps by now.”
“I’ve been too worried!” he’ll say. “They could have come bursting through that door at any second.”
“Who?” ask him. “Ever since I found you running down that alley, you refused to tell me who was chasing you. If you’d just let me in, I could help keep you safe.”
Your Dance Boy will say, “Your obligation to me has ended. It was an honor to be your Dance Boy.”
You’ll grab him and stuff some hundred dollar bills into his pocket.
“Do you think that maybe you’re just making up these people chasing you?” ask him. “Do you think you’re just afraid of going out there and making a life on your own?”
Your Dance Boy will nod weakly. “Yeah, that’s probably it,” he’ll say. “I’ll be fine. Sorry you can’t afford me anymore.”
Your Dance Boy will hug you goodbye, then he’ll step out the door of his dance studio and immediately be shot in the top of the skull by a waiting sniper.
When you kneel beside him and scream no at the sky, focus your anger on the investment banks. They put you in the position of having to send your Dance Boy out to meet his assassin. The investment banks killed your Dance Boy. It’s not worth seeking vengeance or anything because how many people would you have to kill, really? But you could at least write an op-ed about it or something.
Happy Fire Your Dance Boy Day!
