I’m your typical old American white guy – I don’t dance.

I can appreciate it as an art form, applaud wildly at the end of a well-executed ballet and am capable of forcing a smile when the neighbors’ kids show off their latest attempts at dance steps.

But on the whole, the less dancing I see or am forced to take part in, the better the world is for it.

For years I’ve taken guff from the wife, who would just absolutely adore taking dance lessons and having her husband take her out dancing. Personally, I’d just as soon kiss a chainsaw running on “max high.”

Ironically, I’m a fan of Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire movies and can truly appreciate their hoofing talents.

However, when it comes to having to put up with dancing as if it were running on a continuous loop, I’ll side with the elder townspeople in “Footloose.”

Of course, lately, in typical bend-over-and-take-it-up-the-wazoo fashion, we non-boogieing folk have been inundated with more dancing than anyone should have to endure in a lifetime.

It’s as if “Dance Fever” was impregnated by “Soul Train” and the progeny was cast as an extra in “Dirty Dancing.”

When I’m not seeing ads for “Dancing with the Stars,” or “So You Think You Can Dance” or “Dancing with the Stars Who Like to Think They can Dance” or all of that nonsensical contest crapola, ad nauseum, I’m being barraged by one commercial after another that feature – what else – dancers.

There’s one in which everyone and his dog is dancing their asses off, doing flips and handsprings and flopping on the ground and running up walls and I almost had a coronary just watching the damn thing.

For about the first 300 times I saw it I never knew what the commercial was for because I was sweating so profusely just watching these goings-on I had to turn it off. It turns out it’s for some dot-com company that buys used cars.

So, naturally, it makes sense to advertise it by enlisting hundreds of Alvin Ailey Dance Troupe rejects to simultaneously throw fits in front of a camera.

Kinda makes me want to sell my used car, but only after break dancing on the sidewalk for half an hour.

Better yet is another ad, this one for Nissan (and I actually had to watch this tripe recently just so I’d know what car company it was -the sacrifices I make for my millions of readers), that features some suave and debonair couple going through their elegant dancing paces all over town, waltzing through a parking lot and pirouetting on a city street before sashaying out of the way of an oncoming tractor trailer.

I might briefly consider shopping for a Nissan if Fred and Ginger wound up kissing the truck’s grill, but since that didn’t transpire I guess my chances of joining the Nissan-shopping market are zip and zero.

Once again, I don’t have the slightest clue what these Arthur Murray dropouts have to do with the quality of the automobile they’re shilling for, but these days, it seems, as long as you’re dancing some schmuck somewhere is watching - and preparing to vote on line.

Then, of course, you have the recent movement afoot (pun intended) to add ballroom dancing to the slate of the Olympic Games.

You know I’m a potential captive audience for that, especially considering they’ve already put the kibosh on such sports trivialities as baseball, softball and wrestling.

Yes sir, nothing like the cutthroat, live on the edge, faster than the speed of light world of the ballroom dance.

My competitive juices are spilling all over me just thinking about it.

Folks, it’s freakin’ dancing, as if the world needed more. You do it at proms and the occasional wedding and then you leave the rest to the 37 or so background dancers of just about any female singing act in the world.

I don’t want to see it in ads; I don’t want to see it as a competition.

And most of all, I don’t want to do it. And I’m not alone.

Don’t believe me?  Just ask any old white guy who ignores the desperate pleas of his wife.