Djibouti

I came up with a new move when wrestling with Troy. I call it the “Djibouti.” Basically, I get down on all fours, so I can be closer to his level, and when he tries to tackle me to the floor, I spin so my backside is toward him. While he struggles to get to my head, I keep turning. When I get him behind me, I start backing up and bumping him with my bum! If he tries to move right or left to get around it, I swing my hips the same direction, all the while backing up and attacking with my backside. It’s like a deranged display of twerking coupled with wrestling.

Back in 2012, I was living in my friend’s basement. I had become quite close to him and his family. One night, my friend, his son, and I were watching the opening ceremonies of the Olympics. As the various countries paraded around the arena with their flags, one name in particular stuck out to us…the country of Djibouti. My friend’s immature nine-year old son started laughing and saying, “Djibouti…like…the booty!” Then, apparently assuming that we needed a visual demonstration to understand, he leaped from his chair, got down on all fours in the midd of the room and started gyrating his backside at us, while we watched in amused appallment. My friend laughed in awkward embarrassment while his son twerked, yelling, “Djibouti! Djibouti!”

Now, almost ten years later, I’m the one awkwardly twerking on all fours on the floor, gyrating my backside at my son, yelling, “Djibouti! Djibouti!” But to my credit…and shame…I have managed to pull out a wrestling move that Troy either can’t or doesn’t want to deal with. He giggles, but I imagine it’s in pity and embarrassment for his father making a complete fool of himself. I don’t care. All’s fair in love and war!