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Yesterday as we danced around our tradeshow cube, we started to hear majestic murmurs.... splendid wisps of extravagance.... one might even say... careless whispers.
Before we go any further, we'd like to educate those of you out there who have never had the uncomfortable pleasure of experiencing the Sexy Sax Man:
The ladies of the Freakerteam have been shamelessly lusting over Sexy Sax Man for an excruciatingly long time. At one point in time, they played George Michael's Careless Whisper for 14 hours straight each day ... 3 days in a row.
Flash forward to Vegas: The boys have won this round of the fun game we like to play called "Battle-Of-The-Sexes: Crushing-All-Of-Your-Dreams-Edition"
The gentlemen of the Freakerteam are victorious. The ladies of the Freakerteam are livid. Especially since there was not even a feeble attempt to give The Sexy Sax Man their contact information. (Yo Sergio, if you're reading this, you have a gaggle of women in North Carolina that are in desperate need of bearhugs and reconfirmation that To the Heart & Mind, Ignorance is Kind.)
Annnnd now we never have to dance again. Because guilty feet... they have no rhythm.