Attack of the Glamazon Women

"Oy gevalt, they're all so tall and glamorous!"

Last night, dance class took a double turn when a stampede of long-haired Glamazons in high heels and short skirts stormed the studio.  There were 50 of 'em, at least, maybe more.  A cloud of clashing perfume descended on us.  It was hard to breathe.  The SJG flashed the jazz hands in self-defense.  "Back, back!" I cried.  "We're not done with class yet!  We still have five minutes left!"  "You're done now," said the leader, a lanky blonde goddess, in fluorescent pink paisley leggings and scary-ass stilettos.  I looked over at our teacher, hovering in the corner by the stereo.  "Protect us!" I yelled.  "I can't," he said.  "There's too much estrogen in here.  I may need a pacemaker.  I'm too old for this."  "Who ARE you people?" I asked, "and what do you want?"  "We're pageant girls, and we want the room.  NOW."  "Pageant girls?  You mean -- ?"  "That's right.  We're rehearsing for a beauty pageant. You got a problem with that, shorty?"  She took a threatening step toward me, and then another.  I couldn't help but notice that her timing was off.  I decided not to mention it.  "It's all yours," I said, grabbing my dance bag.  "Good.  'Cuz we got a group number that's looking like a hot mess.  See that little dude over there?  He's Justin Bieber's choreographer.  He's here to help us."  "Wow," I said.  "I bet you could stomp him to death with your heels."  "Don't think I haven't thought of that.  He makes a move on one of us, he's history."  "I'm a  Bieblieber!"  "You should be.  Now scram!"  "This is me, scramming," I said.  And scram I did, all the way down the stairs and out the door to Ventura Boulevard.   Later, I realized I should've gone back and saved the teacher and my fellow dancers.  That was selfish of me. I sure hope they made it out alive.  I'd hate to take class all by myself.  What fun is that?