I love karaoke. I love anyone’s rendition of Journey. If they add the air guitar it’s like putting butter on a fresh biscuit. It’s that level of incredible. Here recently I have increased my attendance to a long loved pastime. This is the point where I answer, yes, I sing. I rock the fucking house down with my masterful choreographed movements that are set on “Swayze” and I at least sing better than any Kids Bop album. Seriously, I hate those kids, all of them.
I have fallen in love three times now. I have divided this into three parts for each love because, lets face it, if it’s too wordy you are going to get distracted with cat videos on You Tube. I will share with you what is inside my heart to tell you, anonymous audience that I don’t know. Seriously, one of you is a robot, perpetrating as human. I know it.
The first time I fell in love at a karaoke bar was with the owner. I like to call him “Big Baller The Shot Caller” or to make it short, Baller. Okay, imagine now the single most important looking man you have ever seen, who dresses hip despite his age and has the presence of a rock star. I am sure mentally you doodle up the guy from Sister Wives right? Yeah, that’s pretty close. He had a nifty button down with iron crosses, skulls and shit. He made sure I knew he ran the joint, he was the big fucking cheese around that place. He also told me he was an actor and I could easily identify him in a Rascal Flatts video (he tried to walk at first, but they begged him to return offering more pay, like a boss). I know his acting was so phenomenal that anyone would spot him in the background like “Hey look at that dapper mother lover doing a fist pump in sync with the song!” No one does it better, no one.
He had the confidence of a once awkward, unpopular teen celebrity coming home to high school reunion. I felt this guy was really going to be famous and just a shade under sixty-five. I mean, a Rascal Flats video, fuck the world ya’ll. I am sure he was sincere in telling me what a lovely lady I am, just stunning. I believe there is no possible way he thought my youth made me dumb enough to sleep with a
celebrity guy wearing not enough Hugo Boss being that he might have even injected the stuff too.
I’m guessing the Baller wouldn’t have time to call me back because he’s too busy signing autographs?Duh, of course. I felt I might be too needy for this man, I mean he’s so busy making cheddar, and banging groupies. I know I couldn’t resist myself when I ran into an extra from Salute Your Shorts…or well, the guy who almost was on the show, same difference, I am feeling like a Heidi Fleiss hooker and I know that I know, all of you women are jealous right now.
I want to also take a moment to thank my dear friend who reveled in my obvious discomfort and I made “save me” eyes to no avail. I really thought I was going to have to say the, “Oh boy I ate wings earlier and I gotta shit!” line. It repulses men to think women poop. To conjure such imagery it matters not how slutty your dress is, the dude is turned off. Well, unless he likes poop but the odds are in your favor ladies. Tune in for my next installment of love and bad Cee Lo Green covers.