Michael Flatley

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Michael Flatley in his middle age, apparently taking a nap.

“If you don't know who Michael Flatley is, then you have never seen two legs truly a-twitter.”

~ Oscar Wilde on the Lord of the Dance, said he

Michael "Oi Loik the Croic" Flatley is a large hunk of rendered fat that condensed and hardened in the British Isles. As a young blob of shortening, Flatley was frequently lacking things to do. He tried the game of Jacks, but he absorbed the ball every time. The game of tag was horribly ineffective. Other childhood games seemd rather childish to him. One day, once he became a decent margarine stick, various local misplaced black people began to teach him to dance. The specific dance that Flatley took to [sort of] was the Crip walk. Of course, Flatley, being both rendered and processed fat and extremely white, could only make the walk look something like a bird unsuccessfully taking flight.

The Dance of The Lard[edit]

The Riverdance[edit]

Flatley, just after learning to 'dance', takes this walk and teaches it to 55 other random Irish people, however, unlike the black people, who danced in disarray, Flatley decided to line these people up so as each one can make an apparent ass of themselves. He called this the Riverdance, because, of course, they practised in the local river [which did not stream water, but some rank unidentifiable substance ]. This substance, being sticky, and rather hot, causes the taste-buds to go insane then melt, in that precise order. That river, in all it's mouth melting holiness, now belongs to Tom Cruise, as the site for his next movie, Being Short and Staying Short: A True story. Incidentally, Cruise, too, is an accomplished savant in the art of Riverdancing, in addition to Scientology, Couch dancing, and ogre slaying.

Saving The Last Dance[edit]

As an aging, and curdling (somehow), chunk of butter, or something, Sir Michael Flatley (for he was knighted shotly after the Dance Dance Revolution), fell incredibly ill, with, some doctors believe, a rare and fatal disease. On his death bed, Flately, at the tender age of 13 hours, 43.6 minutes, danced just one last time. No, YOU won't get to see, or even know, what exactly his dance was. For so mesmerizing was his final dance that any, ANY, observers instantly melted and, having so melted, hardened into little, fleshly lumps. Needless to say the devestation was complete.

The Flatley Legacy[edit]

Many were the mourners for such a talented lump of congealed lard; equally many were the imitators who immediately sprang to place, in order, among other things, to fill the void so left. Needless to say, none succeeded. On a more pleasant note, medical logic now confirms that butter, indeed, causes spontaenious-tibetan-cyclopsLeprosy; so, it can be sapiently deduced, that Flately is, indeed, trying to kill us from beyond the grave. Oh, that Flatley- ever so mischiveous, ever so playful.

Flatley and Flutes[edit]

Flatley loves flutes. he loves Rudell and Rose flutes and loves bidding on them whenever they come up for auction using his massive un-ending pile of money, forcing the price up by several thousand pounds. The bastard then repairs and renovates them and playes them fucking perfictally infront of hords of adoring fans with such streight-up hard-core perfect intonation and articulation that causes other flautists to simply explode from the grief of their pathetic attempts at playing. what a prick.

See Also[edit]