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10:33 a.m. - 2005-08-26

THE SCREECHES OF THE DEAD


I hate karaoke.

We've discussed this ... right?

Last week I had an incident at the club during our weekly Karaoke fiasco.

Had this guy who wanted to sing "Born To Be Wild". His name was Jeff. Seemed to be a nice enough guy.

For once ... ONCE ... I was in a somewhat playful mood doing karaoke.

The last few months on Karaoke Night I have reduced my role in the Karaoke Shuffle to just showing up, letting the people massacre whatever song it is they think they can sing because it always sounds good in the shower and by God, if it sounds good there, it'll sound good on an expensive sound system, trying to get the crowd to applaud for them when they're done (they never do ... the majority of the clientele at the club couldn't care less about some drunk warbling "My Way") and then moving on to the next anonymous amateur singer.

But last Thursday ... I was in a good mood.

And then came Jeff.

The music started, Jeff had the microphone in his hand and when it was time to sing ... he read the words off the screen in the flattest monotone.

"Get your motor runnin'," he said into the microphone in a very quiet voice.

I stopped the music and grabbed my own microphone.

"Jeff," I said over the microphone. "This is KARAOKE. The object here is to sing the song, not read the lyrics off the screen. We're going to try this again but this time, I need you to put a little "oomph" behind it. Okay?"

Jeff stood there while the few people in the crowd that were actually paying attention to the karaoke had a chuckle at his expense.

The music started again.

Jeff read the lyrics in the same monotone.

I stopped the music and yelled "DAMMIT JEFF!!"

People laughed heartily in the crowd.

Jeff took my microphone ... my $100 microphone ... and threw it down on the dance floor and walked back to his table of friends who were all laughing.

I apologized over the microphone to him ... even though I was mad as hell that he had thrown MY microphone on the floor ... and asked him to come back.

He flipped me a middle finger and stormed out of the bar.

That's fine. Bye Jeff.

Well ....

Jeff's friend, a portly skanky hag came over to the DJ booth to inform me of how badly I hurt her friend's feelings.

"You're rude! That was rude!" she said, pointing at me while I'm trying to work.

"I was just playing with the guy," I said. "I didn't know he'd be so sensitive about his incredible lack of talent."

"You're rude!" she reiterated in case I hadn't heard her the first dozen times.

And then she went and found a comment card.

I watched her fill out her comment card in disgust and then watched her put it in the comment card box.

She then came back out to the dance floor to shake her skanky ass to "Pour Some Sugar On Me".

(I may be rude, but I know how to get the skanks to shake their groove thangs.)

She then left with her friends.

Naturally, I make a beeline to the comment box because I'm dying to see her side of the story.

There's no lock on the box so I just lifted the top up and read her card.

Basically it said ... you guessed it ... I was rude.

And that it wasn't professional to have the DJ heckle customers who had worked up the courage to sing karaoke.

Okay.

First off ... this is a bar ... not a doctor's office. You should have noticed the lack of professionalism when you saw the cardboard cutouts of the Miller Lite girls in bikinis on your way to your table.

Second ... I didn't "heckle" him. I was "coaching" him to be a better singer. I'm a damned good Karaoke singer and I feel that if I can pass on my karaoke knowledge to others than the world will be a better place with lower gas prices.

Third ... there is no "working up the courage" to sing karaoke when you don't have a freakin' ounce of talent in your body. I have NEVER heard anyone get up there and try to sing a song with less conviction than Jeff. I assure you ... William Shatner has a better singing voice than Jeff.

I put the card back in the box because I already knew what the manager would say when she read it.

"Screw 'em if they can't take a joke."



So last night ... Karaoke Night again.

No Jeff or the greasy chick who's been appointed to fight his karaoke battles while he whimpers in the parking lot over the fact that Daddy never paid for singing lessons.

But we had an equally annoying woman.

She showed up and before she got a drink she came to the booth.

"Are you doing karaoke tonight?" she asked.

"Yes we are!" I announced in a chirpy voice because I'll be damned if I'm going to let anyone get pissed at me tonight.

"So why isn't anyone singing?" she asked.

"Well, we try not to force people to sing against their will," I said. "And so far, nobody's volunteered."

"Well, I want to sing," she said in that dullard voice of hers.

"Okay," I said. "Let me get the manager because all the karaoke discs and books are locked in the office."

Trouble was, nobody had seen the manager on duty.

After five minutes of not finding him, Little Miss God's Gift To Karaoke Bars came waddling back up to the booth.

"Where's the manager?!?" she asked in a breathless huff (she had managed to waddle 30 feet and was about to collapse).

"We're still trying to locate him," I said. "The bartender's keeping an eye out for him."

"I can't believe you people," she snapped. "If you're going to advertiser karaoke, you need to have it."

"We do have it," I said, still maintaining my boyish charm. "But it's locked up right now. As soon as we find the manager, we'll get it out, you'll get a book and you can start singing. Just be patient."

"I've BEEN patient for the last 15 minutes!" she snapped again.

Ummmm ... try five minutes, bitch.

So we finally get the manager (who was previously written about in an entry called something like "The Worst Manager Ever" or something like that ... yes ... the moron still manages the club) and he gets the karaoke for me.

I give a book to the bitch.

She glances over it quickly ... within 60 seconds ... and comes up to the booth yet again.

"He sure doesn't have any good selections in here," she said, referring to the manager.

"They're actually the club's selections ... the manager just had the keys to get them out of the office," I clarified.

"Well," she sniffed. "I want to sing 'Rocky Top'."

"We can do that," I said, gritting my teeth to mere dust. "You're up next."

So I give the woman a nice introduction and she's greeted with maybe four people giving her weak applause.

She takes the microphone.

And this woman who couldn't WAIT to sing and was getting all testy and threatening lawsuits and all this other crap ... can't sing a freakin' note either.

She's so offkey and not keeping up with the words that she sounds like a dog being neutered without being knocked out first.

Finally, halfway through the song, she puts the microphone down, yells "It's too fast!" at me and it takes every ounce of willpower for me not to jump over the booth and tackle her to the dance floor, pummeling the crap out of her.

Instead, I flip my microphone on and finish the song by memory from the booth without reading the lyrics and staying in tune and keeping up with the damned song.

The woman then sang "Paper Roses" by Marie Osmond which left everyone in the crowd bored to tears.

She then left with the weasel she walked in with.

I'm tellin' ya ... it's just a matter of time before you see my pic on the Drudge Report under the headline "DJ Kills Husky Woman For Bitching About Nothing In Nightclub."

It's comin', people.

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