With apologies to that Scientologish book and movie, I have the Secret:  give one person in the venue a syringe of polio, and warn the crowd.

Infecting someone with Live Man Non-Walking disease is the perfect antidote to reckless raving.  There’s nothing the raver loves more than superlimbinality, with a close second to glowsticks.  The downside to forced sitting is denying the United States the opportunity to harness the vast reserves of green energy these engines of eccentricity produce every weekend, though bum cup-shaking can make up much of this.  Rob-Lowe-in-"Thank-You-for-Smoking" Syndrome is another risk, but Zen garden-tending unleashes itself on others only when the gardener relates his tending at sushi happy hour.

Of course, the person given this awesome power to FDR must be blameless, unbiased and in complete control of his passions (and yes, I mean "his" - come on, women?).  In other words, a figure like Jesus...'s fictional predecessor, Plato's philosopher king.  Someone who can see the Form of expressive dancing at concerts and make the call, unblinking and swiftly, when the DA emerges in the pit.  (Peripheral DAs, usually in the back of the crowd, are a subject for another day.)

You may rightly object:  What happens if a group of DAs decides to gang up on the Polionator, like suicide bombers on the Mossad or Agent Smiths on Neo in the second Matrix?  How will he (and yes, I’m firm on this male thing) manage to prick every prick?  Aren’t we just escalating the violence?

To which I respond: Shouldn't you be having sex with your ridiculously tall wife, Dennis Kucinich? The obvious answer is, the Polionator just starts sticking everyone as fast and recklessly as he can.

When concertgoers realize they can be unjustly pricked because of the DAs, they will police the crowd themselves to halt any wriggling that deviates beyond a personal sphere.  Women will kick the offenders (typically male) in the groin, and men will grab their arms and twist backwards, known as Biffing.  Even small transgressions will be swiftly dealt with, like Rudy Giuliani’s police department applying the Theory of Broken Windows.

And all will dance happily ever after. Also, perhaps, warily.

Kay, brahs and chicas. It's time to put an end to this spasmodic bullspit you hipster wackjobs call dancing. It's not enough you look like seizure patients off your Ritalin or whatever, but you're downright dangerous with your spiked hair, your white Marc Ecko glasses that you don't even frakking need, your striped shirt and your trucker hat...gyrating like Mariah just gave you a front row pass to the world Boobie shaking contest, and busting your nuts all over the Parquet with no regard for human decency, safety, or trigonometry.

You dipsters are ruining what could be moderately good fun at a swanky joint. As soon as someone turns up DJ Tiësto you lose all bodily inhibition and motor control and flail about. Even if the music is dope—and nope, it's a joke—it still doesn't give you the right to wutz in five-dimensional space-time. You take up more room than a Busby Berkeley choreography scene if it was invaded by Gestapo officers dressed up as the A Team and turned into an impromptu lesson in how to smoke crack rock through your pooper.

Every time I see one of you tan-skinned circus ringmaster coat-wearing unnecessarily grown-and-ironically-groomed facial hair sporting mincing little fucktards masturbating against some skanky little tube-topper, wiggling your hands around in the air as if you're worshiping some anti-symmetry deity, it makes me want to seriously f*ck your sh*t up.

Or better yet, I'd like to stand up, walk over to your marker-colored Converse All-Stars ass and hand you a card that reads, “Congratulations, you're a douche.”

Get a life, brocephus. Just because you woke up this morning with a Whole Foods hangover after drinking a six-pack of PBR, slumping on top of the pierced-up Goth chick who thinks horn-rimmed glasses makes you have bigger boners, banging until that annoying Arcade Fire singer hits that really high note, then promising to take her to the Tattle Tale Club downtown because you want to let her down easy, doesn't make you God's gift to the dance floor.

In point of fact, you're a total menace. Get lost, douche.