It was the summer of 1957, and Bobby had spent almost an hour getting ready for his big date with Peggy Sue. He slicked back his hair, polished his shoes, and drove up to her house in his father’s borrowed car, trying to look calm and confident.

When he rang the doorbell, Peggy Sue’s father opened the door with a friendly smile.

“Come on in, son. Peggy Sue’s still finishing up.”

Bobby stepped inside, nervous but polite, holding his jacket under one arm.

“So,” her father said, leaning back in his chair, “what are you two kids planning to do tonight?”

Bobby cleared his throat. “Well, sir, we thought we might stop by the malt shop, maybe share a milkshake, and then catch a drive-in movie.”

The father nodded, then said casually, “Why don’t you kids go out and scr*w? I hear all the young people are doing it these days.”

Bobby froze. “Excuse me, sir?”

“Oh sure,” the father continued. “Peggy Sue loves to scrw. If we let her, she’d scrw all night long.”

Just then, Peggy Sue came downstairs, smiling. “I’m ready!”

Bobby stood up quickly. “Great. Good night, sir.”

About twenty minutes later, Peggy Sue burst back into the house, hair messy, dress crooked, and eyes blazing.

She slammed the door and screamed:

“Dad! The Twist! It’s called the Twist!”