Suck it Up

Last night, my friends and I used our karaoke powers for evil. Here's the skinny: There's a guy who comes to our karaoke bar who, for the sake of protecting the innocent, I'll call Jeff (Jeff is actually his real name; he's just not particularly innocent). Now Jeff is an ok guy for the most part - I used to like him. Sure, he's stupid (his IQ exceeds his belt size, but only by 7 points), but I can deal with that. And, yes, he's a drunk (during which time his IQ drops down to 3 points lower than his shoe size), but that's ok, I can deal with that. Oh, yeah, and he's a coke head (unless he likes to go into a one-toilet bathroom with 3 other guys for some other form of recreational activity). And while he is a passable singer when sober, when he gets drunk and coked up, he sings like an asthmatic Jabba the Hut. He also, incidentally, has the annoying habit of choosing to sing songs that I like, and doing them very, very poorly. For instance, he likes to sing the song Brandy by Looking Glass. When he sings the line "Brandy, you're a fine girl", the mental image that is conjured up by his tortuous rendition of the song is that of a toothless, withered hag, smoking a stunted black cigarello, with a tattoo of a dead fish on her stomach.

So, last week on our way back from the football game (Hamilton beat Montreal, proving inconclusively, and for all time, that I am petty enough to give a shit), Cokey McCokeHead (as I like to call him) takes my friend Gary aside, and delivers a warning. Apparently, "some people" at the bar are sick and tired of people in my group singing songs from the movie "Chicago". Apparently, they don't like that music, and wanted us to stop singing those songs.

Now of course, considering that I am a sensitive and caring individual, my initial reaction was "fuck you, you tone-deaf, dripping syphilitic twat". I spoke with my friends, and announced my intentions for the next week. It was my plan to sing nothing but songs from Chicago for the entire evening, and others indicated their plans to join me. You see, once I learn that something irritates a jerk, I like to make sure that I continue to do that something. If jerk's could produce pearls, I'd be rich by now.

So, last night finally came. Sure enough, Jeff was there, at the bar, pretty much already drunk by 9:30 pm. I was the third singer, and I got up and sang "All I Care About". Then Bernie followed, singing "When You're Good to Mamma", followed by Peter, who sang "Mr. Cellophane". Co-incidentally, all three of these songs come from the movie Chicago. It was a coincidence, I swear.

Apparently, Jeff stormed out of the bar shortly thereafter, and was heard to remark "I'm never fucking coming back here again." A comment which, by the way, was not greeted with any particular degree of dismay. In fact, quite the opposite.

The rules for karaoke are fairly simple. One of these rules is that you should always clap for other singers, no matter how good or bad they might be. Its nice to support people. Wait your turn. And one of the major rules is this: No matter how much you might hate a song, you have no right to dictate someone else's choice of music. If you don't like it, suck it up.

Fuck you, Jeff.

Now, on an unrelated note, Peter made a lady vomit last night. Well, when I use the term "lady", I actually mean "drunken bar fly". Barb is a regular at the bar, and possesses somewhat of an ... interesting personality. Our first encounter with her was when she informed Bernie that she shouldn't sing a particular song because it was about something dirty. You see, the song is about a pussy cat, who gets overheated, shaved, and soaked, and contains lyircs such as "hot, bald, wet pussy".

Now, apparently, Barb felt that these kinds of lyrics were certain to cause problems in a bar filled with truck drivers, factory workers, and cocaine addicts. Good people, but definitely not the kind of crowd that one might label as "sensitive". You know, the kind of folks who think its ok to: tell off-colour jokes in public; fart in an elevator; or punch someone in the face if he or she happens to disagree with your opinions on off-coloured jokes and farting.

Bernie told Barb that, as far as she was concerned, the song was about a cat. If she felt the song was about anything else, then that was just her dirty mind conjuring up images. I told Bernie that I would have just told her to fuck off, and that I'll sing about cunts if I want to. That's right, I said cunt. Suck it up.

So, back to Peter, and how he made Barb vomit. Peter likes to smoke cigars, mostly because he is just that kind of manly, mature male who likes things like cigars, motorcycles, and being spanked during bathtime. He has some rather nice cigars he picked up in Cuba, and headed outside to smoke one.

Now Barb was outside smoking a cigarette, and digesting her ninth vodka and orange juice (which was being kept company by 4 beers, a burrito, and 2 ounces of Norwegian semen), and she and Peter sat together. At one point in their conversation, she asked Peter if she could smoke his cigar. Peter assumed she was talking about the Cuban, and handed to her.

Later, Peter claimed that he wondered briefly if he should warn Barb not to inhale, but assumed that an adult would already know this. Apparently, this was not the case, as Barb inhaled, and immediatley vomitted onto the sidewalk/road (for those who are interested in this kind of thing, thats where I learned about the burrito. The semen, I just assumed). As she later claimed, the vomitting incident had nothing to do with the copious amounts of alcohol she had consumed, but rather with the harsh and nauseating sensations which accompany the inhalation of a cigar. Now I, for one, tend to agree, because she drinks like that all the time, and I've never seen her vomit before.

When I heard the news, I had to come outside to see for myself. Barb was standing a few feet away, explaining to everyone that it was the cigar, not the alcohol, and Peter was seated by himself, looking rather embarrased. I told him that, as far as I was concerned, the entire box of cigars had just paid for itself, which made Peter giggle. Then I told him I was serious, and that he could probably write the entire box off as an entertainment expense. This made him laugh louder, and he asked me not to make him laugh anymore, because he didn't want to upset Barb.

You see, Peter's that kind of guy. He's nice. And considerate. And I love him for it. Me? I'm an asshole.

Fuck you, Barb.