Penelope hums in an affirmative, nodding slightly, an affected furrow crossing her brow momentarily. "The dancing girls I'm used to are usually drunk chicks trying to attract a mate by stumbling onto the dance floor and presenting like a mandrill. This is slightly more appealing, gotta say, I mean especially since I made the costumes. Sparkly as fuck, right?"

She says that, as if it's a good thing that she has done that should be applauded. Like an achievement.