Posts Tagged ‘singing’

There aren’t many things in this life that I hate.  I’m inherently sarcastic, sure, but actually loathing something is far beyond the scope of the Skelladay spirit.  I come from a long line of non-complainers and “get over it-ers,” and frankly, I prefer it that way.  I do loathe Bill O’Reilly but his perfunctory left-side bashing has really just become background ratings noise.

funny-pictures-cats-do-karaoke Ahhh, noise…which brings me to my detestation of Karaoke.

 Now I may alienate some of you dive bar superstars who like to take me down to the Paradise City every Saturday night, but hear me out.  It’s absurd.  Not in an attempting to do a home perm absurd, but the exhibition for the sake of being “free spirited” or “fun” is unneeded- – that’s what cleavage and hookahs are for.

What really irks me is not so much what a jackass you look like as you barely climb that hill towards Falsetto suicide but the pain that you inflict upon us other patrons, who are already a little disenchanted at paying $4 for a Coors Lite.  Sure, I’ve paid covers to see bands….many, many times in fact.  I love live music! But that music comes with an invisible certificate of authenticity that says that your ears won’t hemorrhage once the lights go down.   It’s like buying an airplane ticket and having someone say we may either be going to Turks and Caicos or… Mobile, Alabama.  Why do you think so many people look disappointed on the Price is Right?  They want the Jet Ski and end up with the PopSecret popcorn gift pack. 

 Throw into the mix a night of Jagerbombs, which as we all know, inevitably encourages karaoke and all of a sudden the boys in the Outer Banks sweatshirts who barely know their names are now crooning Don’t Stop Believin’ for their homey Matt who just lost his girlfriend Katie, also due to that sneaky green bastard bottle of Jager.  But that’s ok to them, because the world of karaoke doesn’t make sense, just like their insistence on wearing basketball sneakers with everything.  They’re Simon and Garfunkel for three minutes and we all suffer for it.

 Which brings me to the worst karaoke offender.  The (unofficial) karaoke tryout.  This brazen lady or gentleman thinks they’re pretty damn good, but wants to work out the kinks to Beyonce’s “Halo” before next week’s tryout for American’s Got Talent.  Common tell-tale signs include strutting like a mating bird across the makeshift stage (known as ‘presence’), closing their eyes and wearing cocktail gear to a bar that serves Bud Lite buckets 5 for $6.

 Now, I’m not a dream killer.  By no means.  If you want to be a singer, an astronaut, a rodeo clown or a podiatrist knock yourself out.  This is America, the land of milk and honey.  But while you’re ‘trying to figure out the bridge,’ do it at home in the safety of your own bedroom.  I didn’t come to your kitchen and set up shop the first time I tried to make risotto and leave sloppy, gluey rice mess in your sink, did I?

 At this point I should make the confession that I have never tried karaoke.  Not once, not ever- not a scrapple, bar or note.  In a logical sense many of you would argue that, “If you’ve never tried it, how do you know you hate it?”  It’s a fair question, but I’ve also never been a hobo or pierced my nipple, things I’m sure I would dislike.  Sometimes you just have a hunch.

 Those of you who have the pleasure of personally being in The Caus’ sphere of influence know that in addition to his love of sweater vests, he looooooves karaoke.  Loves it.  Dreams about it.  Prints lyrics at home to practice.  As my friend, I love the Caus.  We talk daily and consider ourselves kindred souls.  But do I understand his desire and want to go perform half-assed covers of Seal ballads when his personality and presence is by all means enough and more?  Hell-fucking-no.

 As Hargusta so aptly says:

 “Instead of singing, people should take turns holding the microphone and screaming ‘I’m an asshole’ directly into it.”

 So this is an open hate letter to karaoke and a means of challenge to The Caus to explain why people participate in this nonsense. 

It’s kinda like a dance off, which I would do.

Livin’ On a Prayer,



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