I don’t hate karaoke. Really, I don’t.
I don’t do it myself, either, but I don’t equate it with actual performance. Karaoke is for fun; a diversion. Plus, I’m old enough to remember the first karaoke joke on The Simpsons, when the gag was that it was something Japanese people did. It was the successor to the camera strapped around the neck.
Now, not only is karaoke available in a home version, but late-night talk show hosts burn air time “lip-syncing” “popular” (corporate-backed) songs. The boring blond from Amos & Andy For Nerds, excuse me, I mean The Big Bang Theory, lip-synced her way through a Ludacris song where almost every other word is “bitch”. The idea being, look at this little white girl act “gangsta”. As long as the star is corporate-backed, this is “empowerment”. What do you imagine happens if someone without a hit show* tries this? Continue reading
Earlier this year I crossed a boundary with the dog.
This is a different dog.
I’d eaten some godawful fried thing or another, and feeling a buildup of gas, I leaped over to the dog, crouched directly above his face, and knocked a king-size fart across his nose.
Triumphant, I turned to face the dog, expecting adoration for this generous gastric flotilla. Instead, the dog regarded me with a reproachful look, the kind I expect people receive when they jiggle their comatose grandmother’s breast for a family photo.
“What’s the matter?” I asked the dog in plain English, as though he would reply in kind. “Don’t you, a dog, enjoy the smell of shit?” Continue reading