Ira Glass

She doesn't remember how she then jumped up, got four or five of her girlfriends in a huddle, and miraculously choreographed an impromptu kicking chorus line of Fatso Man to the tune of the Village People's Macho Man.

Fatso, Fatso Man, I would not like to be a Fatso Man.

Fatso, fatso, man.

I would not like to be a fatso.

And at that point, they all threw their hands up in the air in unison.

I remember it so perfectly, but then, after all, it was my crush.

She had no recollection of the time the school photographer called her Daisy Duke and then turned around and called me Boss Hogg.

Or the fitness day that I beat her in a chariots of fire style race.

She didn't even remember the biggest story of them all.

Our sixth grade graduation dance.

Now, the last dance was Stare into Heaven.

Now, I went to the dance that I danced with you.

But I couldn't because as I was walking, a line of people walked by and blocked me.

And then it was a split second.

But then you were in the arms of a grade seven student.

They crashed our grade six graduation dance.

He was tall and thin.

He had like longish hair and he came through the back door of the gym.

You don't remember the last dance?

You kissed this gentleman.