Big-ass birthday shout-out to my boy Hogg, who turns the big 3-2 today. He celebrated his 32nd birthday this week as any upstanding adult would... by moving back in with his parents. I wish I were joking about that. It's a temporary situation, so you can feel free to make fun of him - he'll be dulling the pain with a few giant glasses of liquor tonight. Drinks are on me, buddy.
Speaking of celebrating, last night I was priveleged enough to attend an evening of karaoke with not one but TWO sexxxy temptresses - MFlight and KFunk. When they weren't distracting me with their smooth dance moves and their delectable pig-tailed hottness, they were ripping it up old school on the karaoke mic.
We played a game called Suicide Karaoke (known in some circles as Karaoke Roulette) in which we secretly pick songs for each other. The singer doesn't know his/her song until it happens. Very fun, scary stuff.
Of course, all of us rose to the occasion like the karaoke studs and studdesses that we are. KFunk put on a stirring rendition of The Police's "Roxanne." While she was ever-so-slightly short on actually "knowing the song," she more than made up for it in shimmer. Then, it was my turn to do my best version of "Freedom '90" by George Michael. Not to brag, but by the time I was done, there was not a dry pair of pants in the joint.
Finally, the main event was about to be upon us - Maura's turn. She didn't know it yet, but she was about to knock "Carribbean Queen" by Billy Ocean clear out of the goddamn park. But the unthinkable happened: the karaoke host said that there was one song left... to be sung by him.
Which brings me to my point: what the fuck is the deal with these motherfucking cockass karoake hosts? People are there to sing and listen to their friends sing and get drunk, not listen to your pathetic version of Linkin Park's "Undertow" for the 265th week in a row (worst. karaoke choice. EVER.). They're just like pub trivia hosts - sad, power-tripping little weirdos that derive a passive aggressive thrill out of controlling who sings next. Pa-thetic.
Have a good weekend, friends.
Speaking of celebrating, last night I was priveleged enough to attend an evening of karaoke with not one but TWO sexxxy temptresses - MFlight and KFunk. When they weren't distracting me with their smooth dance moves and their delectable pig-tailed hottness, they were ripping it up old school on the karaoke mic.
We played a game called Suicide Karaoke (known in some circles as Karaoke Roulette) in which we secretly pick songs for each other. The singer doesn't know his/her song until it happens. Very fun, scary stuff.
Of course, all of us rose to the occasion like the karaoke studs and studdesses that we are. KFunk put on a stirring rendition of The Police's "Roxanne." While she was ever-so-slightly short on actually "knowing the song," she more than made up for it in shimmer. Then, it was my turn to do my best version of "Freedom '90" by George Michael. Not to brag, but by the time I was done, there was not a dry pair of pants in the joint.
Finally, the main event was about to be upon us - Maura's turn. She didn't know it yet, but she was about to knock "Carribbean Queen" by Billy Ocean clear out of the goddamn park. But the unthinkable happened: the karaoke host said that there was one song left... to be sung by him.
Which brings me to my point: what the fuck is the deal with these motherfucking cockass karoake hosts? People are there to sing and listen to their friends sing and get drunk, not listen to your pathetic version of Linkin Park's "Undertow" for the 265th week in a row (worst. karaoke choice. EVER.). They're just like pub trivia hosts - sad, power-tripping little weirdos that derive a passive aggressive thrill out of controlling who sings next. Pa-thetic.
Have a good weekend, friends.
4 Comments:
I would very much like an update on all things Mark the Shark and how he rated your individual performances. Thank you.
Mark the Shark didn't give us individual critiques, but he did come over and introduce himself. Then he kissed Kristen full on the mouth. Very passionate.
MtS came to our table, introduced himself, and went around and around saying all of our names until he could get them all perfect. He wore a shiny green shirt unbuttoned just to there. He didn't, as usual, remember meeting any of us the previous 124 times we've attended. My favorite thing about Mark is that his memory lasts exactly as long as one night of karaoke. I'm convinced that if I joined him outside for a cigarette after the last song he'd introduce himself.
ohhhhh. i miss home, and maura, and brendo, and kfunk, and mark the shark and his shiny green shirt soooooooooooooooooooooo much. i am cring and cring and cring.
Post a Comment
<< Home