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7:57 a.m. - 2004-08-24


Went to the doctor yesterday to report that I was quickly dying.

His prognosis?

"You've got walking pneumonia," he concurred.

"What about the boogie woogie flu?" I asked.

Yes ... even with a temperature of 103, I still had my wit about me.

He gave me antibiotics, cough medicine and an inhaler.

Those inhalers are nasty.

No wonder people don't want asthma. Huffing on that shit made me want to swear off ever getting the asthma.

I'm feeling slightly better today, although as I sit here, sweat is pouring down my face and from under my arms.

So this is going to be quick.

Anyway, I hate drunk obnoxious rich people.

I always have hated them because they're rich, drunk and obnoxious, but after Saturday night I hate 'em even more.

I DJed a fund-raiser event at the city's most elegant country club full of tan men in golf attire with their 20 years younger bored trophy wives in tow.

The first part of the evening was to be me playing music. Then they were having a $10,000 draw down. Then I was supposed to open up the Karaoke section of my show.

So they tell me that the music they want played should be mellow oldies happy hour music.

No problem.

Except for the bored housewives who weren't born until 1980 that wanted me to play "hip" music.

To me, hip music is the Killers, the Scissor Sisters and the new Modest Mouse song.

To them, hip music is Dave Matthews and that fucking "Brown Eyed Girl" shit.

So I played that fucking "Brown Eyed Girl" shit and naturally, they went bored young trophy wife apeshit on me.

Whenever I play the song at a function like this, it is natural for bored young trophy wives to throw their arms around each other's shoulders and sing along drunkenly.


Anyway, I played every Dave Matthews and Jimmy Buffett song I had because that's hip to these girls fresh out of Sorority.

The draw down then took place, giving me about an hour break to just talk to the bartenders and wonder why my chest and head were hurting so bad.

(Answer: Walking pneumonia, you moron. What? Did you skip that part??)

The final two ticket holders decided to split the cash ... $5,000 apiece.

And then they donated the money to the charity ... the Make-A-Wish Foundation.

Which I thought was very noble.

Because had I won the money, my ass woulda packed my stuff up and left right then and there tossing the suggestion of "Acapella Karaoke" at them as I peeled out of the parking lot.

Alas, I didn't win because I didn't have $100 to spend on a ticket.

Plus, I'm not a gambler.

(God, I'm really sweating now. In case you were wondering)

So anyway, I get on the mic and tell everyone that the Karaoke portion of the evening will now be taking place.

It always takes just one person to come up and sing in order to get everyone else to sing.

So one girl came up and sang Patsy Cline's "Crazy".

She's standing next to me because the monitor's in my little "booth".

And she's acting all seductive on my ass. Staring me in the eye while she runs her fingers through my hair.

(Yes, I'm letting my hair grow back out. I haven't mentioned it, but I haven't shaved my head in about a month. It's at a gawdawful stage right now where I look like a mental patient.)

Naturally, I start popping a boner because she's fine as hell and rubbing her boobs against my back as she croons to me.

Alas, two minutes and 45 seconds later, she drops the illusion and walks away to the applause from the drunk and obnoxious rich crowd.

And Le Boner deflates.

So then it's a series of drunks getting up there and singing.

One motherfucker ... ugh.

I remember him from my bar days back in the 80s. Luckily, he didn't recognize me because he was stumbling drunk and we've both gotten older and look a bit different.

He wants to sing Conway Twitty's "Hello Darlin'".


He proceeds to shove the microphone as far in his mouth as possible and sing that way.

So all that's coming out of my speakers is this loud roar over a cheesy country ballad.

I keep motioning for him to pull the microphone away from his mouth but he ignores me.

Finally, I put my hand on his hand and yank the microphone a few inches from his face.

He stops singing and gives me this wild eyed drunken stare like he's about to try and kick my ass even though he can hardly stand up.

"I know how to do this!" he yells.

"It's a very sensitive microphone and you're about to blow my speakers," I yelled back.

The song finishes and he stumbles away to the frenzied applause of the drunk, obnoxious rich crowd.

Then, this drunk woman comes up to me and says "Patty wants to sing!"

"Are you Patty?" I ask.

"No," she says. "Patty's over there. But she really wants to sing!"

"What does she want to sing?" I ask.

"Anything!" the girl says. "She can sing anything!"

So I cue up "The Rose" because she should be able to sing that if she can sing anything.

"It's Patty's turn to sing!" I say into the mic.

Patty is all like "Hell no! I'm NOT singing!"

Meanwhile, her two drunk friends are physically dragging her toward my booth.

People ... a friendly word of advice ... don't pull this kinda shit at a karaoke bar.

There's always someone in every crowd who thinks it's funny to nominate a friend to sing when that friend has no intention of singing.

And it may be funny to your drunk, obnoxious and rich ass.

But to the karaoke guy, you've just became a major pain in the ass.

Because as you're pulling your friend to the booth, you're producing dead air which is a term used for "no immediate entertainment being provided to the rest of the crowd".

Nobody was chanting "Patty! Patty! Patty!"

And the visual of a grown woman being dragged around a room kicking and screaming is kind of a buzzkill.

Patty swore she had never heard "The Rose" and thus couldn't sing it.

At that point I said "Fine, I'll just sing something."

I pushed "Next" on the remote and up came "Rocky Top".

Here in Alabama, "Rocky Top" is generally regarded as the fight song of the University of Tennessee Volunteers and is a much hated song here due to the state's intense hatred for any football team located outside of Alabama.

I went to the University of Tennessee.

And I personally love the song.

So I belted that bitch out like it was nobody's business while the drunk, obnoxious and rich crowd both booed and danced.

An hour or so later, Patty's friend came back up to the booth.

"Patty's ready to sing now. Call her back up here."

"What's she going to sing?" I asked. "I have to have a song ready for her when she gets up here."

"Anything," the drunk girl muttered while trying to keep her balance.

I wasn't playing that game again.

"When Patty herself comes up here and tells me what song she wants to sing, then I'll have her sing it," I said. "But right now, I've got a list of people who really want to sing and I have to accommodate them first."

The girl just stared at me like I had told her that her trust fund was being taken away.

"You're an asshole," she spat.

I just smiled big and got on the mic to introduce the next singer.

The night ended rather abruptly.

The host wanted the music shut down at midnight.

At 11:45, some rich kid started yelling at a young lady.



About six guys grabbed him and escorted him out of the building while the girl shook in tears.

One of the bartenders gave me the "shut it down NOW" signal which is a thumb being yanked across the throat area.

I turned the music off, told everyone I had a great time and started packing it up.

Of course, Patty's friends still protested that Patty hadn't sang and wanted me to turn everything back on.

I explained to them that I had to answer to the people paying me and the people paying me wanted me to shut it down NOW due to the little spoiled rich boy who spoiled the evening.

After everyone left, I asked the bartender what had happened to spur the "Fuck You" incident.

He wasn't sure.

But he said "All I know is I wanted everybody out at that point. I know one thing ... you white people get crazy when you drink."

That cracked my ass up.

Okay, I'm now sweating so profusely that I could be mistaken for a fountain.

Back to bed for me.

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