I have never had a pap smear for I do not have a pap to smear, but I believe a similar form of this degrading pain was inflicted upon me when I auditioned performers for a show I was coordinating.
As the head of the talent show during homecoming week at South Dakota State University, I was certainly befuddled at how many acts did not let the term “talent show” deter them from wasting my valuable time. One guy performed a song he had written about Macaroni and cheese. I had a hunch his parents told their friends, and themselves for that matter, their son is a special needs child. In retrospect the only act I can vividly picture from my two years of creating this show is a dance group, which was misleading because, while they were a group, they surely could not dance. My fragile self is still healing from the scalding feeling of being lied to.
First and foremost, I am by no means a dance expert. Before I begin my story, I feel that identifying the genre of dancers that auditioned would thereby identify this group. After my Volgagate incident, in which I was shamefully banned from Volga for centering a column I wrote about water aerobics, I have decided to be a little more discreet for I have no desire to be accosted at Walmart by offended parties.
The four other judges and I were seated at a table armed with pens and papers to document who would make the cut. Being a fan of performing arts, I hoped with every fiber of my being that what was about to happen would be show stopping. My friend and co-judge, Bethany, did not mirror my enthusiasm as she nonchalantly whispered, “Woof, the chick with the stretch marks has more rolls than Panera.” Slightly taken aback, I did wonder if wearing a beige tube top was really a wise decision. My quandary was left unanswered when the lights dimmed, the music started and it happened.
The way they moved can be best described as a spastic combination of someone searching for the light switch in the dark mixed with a Muppet on acid. One member just sort of watched the others and clapped half-heartedly while bouncing up and down like a toddler amused by a shiny object. The entire table vibrated from the quiet, shaky laughter that came from Bethany and I. We later agreed they would have been in the show for sure had they been a comedy troupe.
God love them for trying, but in all seriousness, it looked like they had not rehearsed, were off by a few beats and lacked an all-important chemistry groups need for success. Upon completion of what had been a mass seizure set to eight counts, I politely thanked them as they made their exit.
The performer list went up in the days that followed as well as a very tactful note encouraging those who did not make it to audition for future events. Suddenly, the phone rang with what would soon be a verbal tongue lashing from a very angry dancer. Irate, she gave a laundry list of why their group had been cheated out of a spot in the show by a biased and uncultured judges panel. Having been around the farms of relatives during my youth, I can safely say watching a well-endowed stallion penetrate a mare was less violent than their version of culture that had been showcased days prior. Seriously, they were terrible.
She would not stop yelling at me, but I managed to maintain professionalism and calmly explain their score was not high enough to qualify for a spot but there was still the possibility of next year. Eventually the novelty of being screamed at by someone with the linguistics of Flava Flave wore off on me. I finally, in no uncertain terms, clued her in on why her little engine simply could not. Some might think telling her that her group was, “horrible, embarrassing and unorganized,” is harsh. I argue that I am not a father so why should I coddle an adult after she had a childlike temper tantrum.
After ending with, “I think it would be appalling to the other acts that tried if I let you into the show,” she swore to seek legal action — yes, legal action — before a dial tone sent waves through my ears.
I never did see the inside of a courtroom, but I did see her months later. I am not sure if she ever forgave me, but I deduce her harsh feelings had subsided by way of her actions. She never did formally apologize, but when she offered to super-size my meal, I knew we were on good terms.
Brady Mallory, an Austin, Minn., native is a broadcast major at South Dakota State University.
