TOO MANY STORIES ... NOT ENOUGH GOOD ONES

Do not expect much sense from this entry because I am coasting on fumes.

I've averaged about four hours of sleep per night since Monday morning. Yesterday I realized that I was delerious when I called the owner of my day job "Buster" as in "Get out of this store right now, Buster or I'm calling the cops."

I think he thought I was kidding because he let out a soft chuckle behind a bewildered look.

And technically, I was kidding because I didn't really want him to leave.

I wanted him to stand behind me and prop me up for the rest of the day as I was about to pass out from exhaustion.

Alas, he did not.

He left.

Bastard.

And I found this shop full of broken toys and I thought "I bet Andrew would like some of these broken toys!"

So I started leafing through the broken toys and I found a Cool Whip container full of rusty fish hooks and thought "Andrew would LOVE these!"

So in my dream, I bought the container full of rusty fish hooks and were going to take them home to Andrew but ... as dreams sometimes go ... I ended up in my old high school instead (sans fish hooks) and I couldn't find my locker and I was late for class.

I really hate when that happens.

If anybody has a Cool Whip container full of rusty fish hooks that they'd be willing to send Andrew to play with, please email me.

The container MUST be full.

And the fish hooks MUST be rusty.

Because ... in my dream ... this was the absolute best present I had ever bought the boy.

It was thrown by my ex-co-workers a few jobs back and so it was good to see all of them again.

Anywhooo ... they wanted Karaoke and they got it.

We were playing Kamikaze Karaoke which I've probably explained here before but I have this undying urge to explain it one more time.

Basically there's a bunch of slips of paper in a bowl with names of songs on them.

People come up, reach into the bowl, pull out a slip and hand it to me.

Then they MUST sing whatever song was on the slip and they get a prize.

For once, the game was going pretty smoothly. A few people had been playing it and everyone who watched was enjoying it.

Then this one guy comes up and says "My wife dared me to do this".

Fine, chief. I don't really care what brought you to the dance ... just shake yo' ass.

I asked him his name and he told me, but I only caught the first name.

Franklin.

So I introduce Franklin and he pulls out "Hello Dolly".

So he starts to try and sing it and he's just gawd awful ... but a good gawd awful.

So I stop the music and say "So" one more time because I'm saying "So" a lot here in this entry, aren't I?

Actually, I tell him that we're going to start over and explain to him that when the words light up on the screen, THAT'S when he "sings" them.

We start over and he's still just reciting the words at first.

We get to the middle instrumental and I call up a bunch of women who are standing there cheering him on to join him in finishing out the song.

They surround Franklin and he gets a big grin on his face as they force him to sway and sing loudly and (almost) on key.

The crowd cheers for Franklin as the song finishes.

Franklin's laughing up a storm.

He had a great time so I chide him a bit on the mic.

"That was great, Franklin ... simply great," I say. "I believe I have a tear in my eye from that rendition. It's probably a tear ... OF PAIN ... but a tear nevertheless."

"Ha, ha, ha!" says the crowd.

Franklin turns around and gives me a grin while he shakes his fist at me in a gesture that just screams "Why you!"

Ten minutes pass.

Not in silence or anything. Music was playing. I don't want to make it sound like everyone sat quietly and stared at their watches waiting for ten minutes to pass.

Franklin comes back up to the DJ booth with a guy that looks vaguely familiar.

"Hey Uncle Bob," the familiar guy says. "I don't know if you remember me, but I'm the general manager of the place that your wife works."

Oh.

"And this is Frank ... not Franklin," he finishes.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh ... snap.

Frank is the president of the company where Susie works.

Susie talks about him every single day when she gets home from work.

I just insulted the president of my wife's company.

But he's laughing and pumping my hand and saying how much he loved doing Karaoke and babbling about how I HAVE to go home and tell Susie how bad he did and his wife dared him to do it and he never had so much fun in years and laughing and laughing and laughing and ...

... Frank was a wee bit tipsy.

...And make sure I go home and tell Susie how bad he did and he's never had so much fun and he loved it and he had such a blast and ... and .. and ...

Finally I pried my hand out of his and gently massaged my wrist from all the pumping he just put it through while explaining that the song that was playing was just about to end and I had to get back to work.

Frank and the general manager both said I was doing a great job while Frank cackled madly.

So I ended up insulting and making fun of my wife's boss inadvertently and he loved every minute of it.

There's not many jobs that let you do that, Buster.

I had a good crowd and they were dance, dance, dancing up a storm.

I had this 15 minute 80's medley going on that never fails to bring them to the dance floor.

We were on about Minute 12 when this woman comes up to the DJ area.

"Is this supposed to be entertaining?" she sneers as she gestures towards the FULL dance floor.

"Hey, they like it!" I smile, remembering that I'm getting paid $100/hour from these people.

"Well, it's 80s MUSIC!" she snaps. "I'm older than most everyone here and I don't like it!"

Oh.

You're drunk.

Why didn't you just say so, Ma'am?

Why didn't you just start the conversation with "I've had too much to drink and rather than make a request, I'm here to insult the way you do your job as if I would have a freakin' clue as to what to do if I came up here and took over"?

"Ma'am, would you like to make a request?" I smiled.

"I dunno," she slurred. "Play something I can dance to."

Okay.

Once again, maybe I've gone over this in the past here, but let's touch on it one more time.

NEVER EVER go up to a DJ at a party or a club and say "Play something I can dance to".

I don't care HOW DRUNK you may be ... it's not the least bit cute.

Because we have no idea what your drunk ass CAN dance to.

And it is the most irritating phrase a DJ can hear.

ESPECIALLY when there's a full crowd on the dance floor dancing to the song that you're complaining about.

"What can you dance to?" I asked. "Foxtrot? Hustle? Cha-Cha? Waltz? Two-Step? I've got them all."

Her eyes light up.

"How about the Electric Slide?" she slurred.

Jesus Howard Christ the Third.

The Electric Slide is the drunk Southern woman's mating call.

They hear the first few beats and they immediately hit the dance floor to try and "out-sexy" each other in the lamest tribal dance ever invented.

I despise the Electric Slide.

I used to despise the song "Strokin".

But nobody ever requests that crap anymore.

I am the world's greatest disc jockey.

So I follow up my kickass 80s medley with the Electric Slide.

...Knowing what was about to happen.

I just played a HIGH ENERGY 15 minute song that had the dance floor packed and sweaty.

It didn't matter WHAT song I followed it with ... I had exhausted this dance floor and they were heading to the bar at the end of it.

So I throw on the Electric Slide.

The dance floor empties.

And Drunk Harrassing Woman hits the floor.

By herself.

She thinks she's the hottest thing since canned ham.

Nobody's paying a bit of attention to her.

During the "1,2,3" breakdown of the song, I mix in George Clinton's "Atomic Dog".

The majority of people keep the beat up and can continue sliding to "Atomic Dog".

For the raging drunk women that read this crap ... try it. You can slide to "Atomic Dog".

This drunken ho just glared at me.

How dare I cut off the last minute of her Slide Show?

I would have spat at her, but I never really mastered the art of letting loogies fly at admirable distances so I just stood there with a mouthful of saliva and glared back at her.

Finally she just threw her hand in the air as if to dismiss me and my poor choice of music and walked off the dance floor to absolutely NO accolades.

Screw you, drunk woman.

I hope I never see you again.