I Am the Karaoke Master
Call my name! Call my fucking name, dude! I am READY!
“Debbie”? What do you mean, “Debbie”? That chick was just up there like two minutes ago, ruining a Shania Twain song. How the hell is it her turn again already?
I have more than twenty slips of paper up there with my name on them. Every song that I have selected is more perfect than the last. Just call me so that I can set this place on fire. My mad karaoke skills are gonna get me laid tonight.
Here’s the plan:
First, I’m going to rock the house with AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long.” You know, to get the crowd on my side. I even do a hilarious Angus Young guitar solo pantomime right in the middle.
After that I’ll slow it down a little and do something soulful to get the girls all lubed up. I believe some Creed might be in order. It feels like an “Arms Wide Open” night. I’ll do a little intro describing how that Scott Stapp dude wrote the song for his son. That’ll get ‘em right off the bat. As soon as they see my pouty expression while I deliver that heartfelt, lyrical bullshit I might as well just throw on a condom to save time.
After that, it’s time to show off the old sense of humor. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that chicks love dudes who crack their shit up. Luckily, I’m a certified cutup. I think I’ll do Adam Sandler’s “Piece of Shit Car.” That song is fucking hysterical! The car he sings about is so shitty. Everybody will be rolling.
But wait …what if these morons really think I have a shitty car because that’s what I’m singing about? That could backfire on me. Chicks hate broke dudes. Maybe I could say at the top of the song that I actually drive a 2002 Pontiac Grand Am. No, that would sound like I was bragging. It’s not worth the risk, I’ll just do a Weird Al song.
“My Bologna” it is.
By then, everyone will be sweating my mad karaoke skills, and that’s when it’s time to select a chick and do some duets.
First order of business: “Paradise by the Dashboard Light.” They don’t get any more classic than this one, and you can feel the sexual tension build throughout the whole goddamned thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if she jumped my bones right in the middle of the baseball announcer part.
After that it’s time for a ditty from a little musical called Grease. I believe “Summer Lovin’” is in order. Depending on my mood, I might even do the chick part and have her do the dude part just to score some extra laughs.
I’ll play it by ear.
Then it’ll be time to pull out the B-52’s “Love Shack” and let nine bitches back me up while I do my patented Fred Schneider impression. I wonder if that queer had any idea when he recorded that song fifty years ago how much strange it would get me one day.
I’ll wrap up the evening with my end–of–the–night showstopper, “Closing Time” by Semisonic. It’s way appropriate because the song’s called “Closing Time” and it’s closing time at the bar. So it works on two levels.
After that, it’s just a matter of watching all the broads duke it out over who gets to go home with the karaoke superstar. I hope it’s that blonde over there.
Call my fucking name!