You don’t love limbo like I love limbo. You just don’t. You can’t aspire to such passionate limbo heights. You can’t match my sociopathic embrace of limbo culture. You can’t compete with my misguided limbo devotion. Or comprehend the depths I’ve plunged to advance my limbo craft, the great sacrifices I’ve made—like eliminating all non-limbo conversation with other living beings. And sex.
I’ve practiced limbo since before you were a tiki sparkle in your daddy’s Mai Tai. I’ve forgotten more about limbo than you’ll ever learn at your limbo-themed swinger parties. I’ve witnessed more in the limbo trenches then you’ve had written out for you in your Princess Cruises program guide. Fact is, I love limbo like a coconut oil motorcade and you barely know how to spell the word. L-I-M-B-O. It’s not even hard.
I mean, if you love limbo so much, why haven’t you put height adjustable rods across every doorway in your home? Huh? Because you don’t love limbo that much, that’s why.
If you love limbo so much, why haven’t you purposely broken your heel in three places to elongate it? What’s the excuse?
If you love limbo so much, why haven’t you acquired 114 broomsticks—each sawed off to a regulation 72-inch length—and scattered them between five now-useless closets? Tell me, you yuppie limbo-hater. Tell me!
Okay, if you love limbo so much, why haven’t you tattooed every square inch of your skin to change its color from Irish Peach to Caribbean Hardwood? I’m soooo sure you have a good reason.
What about this? If you love limbo so much, why don’t you play the claves? In fact, why don’t you hold the world record for the most claves stuffed with cannabis and transported 1,000 miles by fishing trawler to Puerto Rico? Which, according to Border Patrol, is 97 pairs? Explain that!
I can explain it quite easily. You can’t fake impetuous-yet-immersive dedication to a certain knee-buckling lifestyle.
If you love limbo so much, why haven’t you sent the White House several requests for a mandatory high school limbo curriculum? And why don’t you have a politely worded declination letter from Shellie Pfohl—the President’s Council on Fitness, Sports and Nutrition—framed and hanging in your guest bathroom?
Hey, I ask the tough limbo questions you just can’t answer, my limbo-neglecting friend.
If you love limbo so much, why don’t you have a repulsive, third-degree burn across your chest from filming a video called Limbo Fuego? Why haven’t you petitioned Rule 22.214.171.124 in the limbo handbook because you know it’s stupid? Why did you have intercourse twice this year?
Because you were skipping practice, that’s why, you copulation-starved limbo fake.
Just for the sake of argument, let’s assume you might love limbo. Let’s give you the benefit of the ol’ limbo doubt. Then why don’t you have Chubby Checker’s “Limbo Rock” on continuous loop through the built-in speakers in your recently-plundered-by-divorce, furniture-less home? Need I ask more?
Here’s a quick one. Why haven’t you converted your basement into a Jamaican steel-pan shanty with two separate bamboo racks with peg sets every six inches?
Trick question! Limbo is not from Jamaica! It’s from Trinidad! Land of hummingbirds and limbo! The real question is, why doesn’t your basement feel like a Gulf-of-Paria Coquette sanctuary with three limbo racks made from the native Açaí palm and peg sets every two inches, motherfucker!?
If you really loved limbo, you would’ve caught that. If you really loved limbo—like, really loved it, when someone barely grazes the limbo pole, you’d cry CHEATER! CHEATER! And pound your fists on the flame-lit turf, causing everyone to go home and leave you with 60 ounces of Chadon Beni Chutney to eat on your own. If you really loved limbo, you’d sleep hanging over the mattress at a backwards 90-degree angle. If you really loved limbo, you’d no longer bathe.
I don’t know. Maybe I’ve got you all wrong. Maybe you do love limbo. Maybe you do understand the meaning of “How low can you go?” It’s not where most people think, is it? It’s much, much lower.
Fine. I’ll say it. You love limbo. You do. Happy now? But hang on. Before you smugly saunter toward some glorious tropical horizon, let me ask you one last thing about your so-called affection for limbo. Is it anything like your over-amplified zeal for Bocce Ball?
Bet you don’t love Bocce Ball like I love Bocce Ball. Jerk-wad.