I sure have written a lot about karaoke. That can only mean one of two things
1) I love the art form and the joy it brings to all the wondrous songbirds of the world.
2) I want to rip the spleen out of anyone who dares utter the word then strangle them with it.
Now which one sounds more like me?
If you are one of those sadly not rare people who loves themselves a little karaoke please know these things: your friends hate you; your loved ones hate that they have to apologize to friends every week for being forced to show up; and patrons of the establishment who didn’t know what horrific events were about to unfold want to go a little number two on your ass.
So please, for the sake of your friends, for the sake of your loved ones who are losing friends, and for the sake of the poor patrons who just wanted a nice, quiet, calm after dinner drink, back off, Little Rancid.
No, you don’t sound like Bonnie Tyler when you do Total Eclipse of the Heart. You sound like a hamster who’s been taught to speak and is going through a root canal. Be delusional on your own time. Your friends don’t have time for the Freddy Mercury level showmanship projected inside your head. What they see is what’s actually right in front of them. A frumpy soccer mom having a conniption.
So imagine my disdain when what I thought was just a plethora of shitty selections from the jukebox was the harbinger of audio doom. After about an hour of random musical caca I heard these chilling words over the microphone,
“If anyone would like to sing we have some books up here.”
“Why didn’t you warn me?” I accuse the bartender. But she just smiles and walks away. Her hearing already in deaf con seven. I look at how much of my drink is left and that of my companion and see that we are not going to get out of this unscathed. I’m sure because, upon hearing the word ‘sing’ this guy, this karaoke ninja who I swear was not in the building when the karaoke Goebbels said ‘if” was already up there with a handful of slips.
“He must print them out at home to be ready.” I mutter ominously into my beer.
I keep my back to him hoping that my ears wilt and slip into my ear holes for safety. But there would be no such luck because, sadly, we have not evolved enough as a species yet. But one day, one day I still hold out a wisp of hope.
I can’t recall the song, a coping mechanism I’ve learned, but it was one of those 60’s songs that seemed like a great idea when the lyricist was on acid but now sounds like a voice mail from your great great grandmother. You know there’s an idea in there somewhere but it’s way beyond your comprehension level.
But between that there was a sound. I’m used to feedback during karaoke. I actually look forward to it. At least it’s a sound I can deal with. But this was an odd one. More a popping then a squeal. The guy may be blowing into the mic (’cause I know he’s sucking with it).
But that’s odd. He doesn’t seem to be ‘singing’ when it happens at times. There it goes again. This time it was much more rapid. A bleet-bleet bleet-bleet-bleet. So I turn around and look.
“He’s keeping time by hand farting?”
Yes, he was.
“Why didn’t you warn me?” I scold the bartender. She shrugs and says,
“Some things you just have to see for yourself.”
Because no one else is there willing to torture others Mr. Bo Farthands gets to regale us with a few Doors tunes in a row.
“Mother? Yes, son. I want to fart faaaaaaaaaarrrttt.”
Light My Fire
“Come on baby, fart-fart fart fart.”
I’ve seen plenty of instruments in my day. I have a Diddley Bo (a homemade one stringed guitar). I’ve touched a Viotar (a violin/guitar). I’ve seen a Trumophone (a trumpet with a saxophone mouthpiece). And now I can add Farting Hands to that list.
I could have lived my entire life without seeing and hearing that.
Fuck you, karaoke.