My Funny Valentine

I am just coming from the IHouse Valentine's Day party, which incorporated mandatory high-pressure-dance classes. Up until now, Salsa -to me- meant "delicious dip to be enjoyed with freshly purchased nacho chips". Sometimes, I like to submerge a nacho chip into the jar and pretend it's the fin of a salsa shark. As of today, "salsa" also means "White boy can't move his legs while counting". It's a good thing we did calculus in school while being seated, if I had to move at the same time, I would have failed that class like there's no tomorrow.
My dance partner, whom, in absence of a real name, I have cleverly nicknamed "cheerful California girl", was able to fake her way through the moves, but me, with no hand-eye-foot-mouth-coordination (meaning the respective activities are mutually exclusive, i.e. I can't walk and talk, or see and catch, or clip my toenails), it was Mike's Movement Mayhem.
Actually, if I ever start a dance company, that's what we'll be called. Also, we'll be avantgarde. Definitly.
Now here is a joke that won't work spelled out.
Why is six afraid of seven? Because seven ate nine. (Say it fast.) (Do it.)