HUMOR: Fist Fight at Karaoke Night

Fist Fight at Karaoke Night 

"Hey, have you noticed?”  

“Noticed what?”

“That guy in charge of the song selection keeps giving us the shaft.” 

“Really?”

“Really. That dude with the Jheri curls has been up three times in the last hour.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Come on.  The DJ’s only played like one of our requests out of the last ten songs.”

“You know? I think you’re right.” 

“You see?”

“That’s so not cool.”

“I’m going to have a word with him.”

“You sure?”

“Totally sure.”

“Ah, wait a minute, maybe he’ll play one of ours next.” 

“What are you saying?” 

“I'm saying just let it slide.”

“Just let it slide?  You let little things like this slide and then, you know what happens?  Over time your soul gets eaten up. “

“I’m just saying don't make a big deal out of it.”

“You think Donald Trump just lets things slide?  You think that judge on American Idol just lets things slide?  Sean Penn! You think Sean Penn just lets things slide?”

“Sean Penn would never do karaoke.”

“Fuck this!  You let this stuff slide, then next thing you know, you’ve lost all your self-respect and you end up with a bleeding ulcer and then you become one of those guys who walks down the street talking to himself.  Shouting threats at clergymen.”

          *

“Hey. What’s up with the song selection?  You’re totally giving our table the shaft.”

“I’m not giving anybody the shaft.”  

“Our table’s only had like one song in the last hour.” 

“It’s one song per table.  I’m being totally fair.”

“Fair?  My ass.  That dude that looks like Lionel Richie’s already sung three Phil Collins songs in the last hour!  We haven’t gotten any.”

“It’s one song per table.”

“Then how come Lionel’s gotten three?”

“He’s at a table for ten.  Tables with ten or more get two songs for every rotation.  Tables with less than ten get one song per rotation.”

“Aha!  So you admit it!   It’s not one song per table.  It’s two songs per table.”

“For tables with ten.”

“But we’re nine.”

“So you only get one song per rotation.” 

“But Lionel Richie’s the only one singing from his table. “

“Who sings is up to them to decide.”

“That’s bunk, man.  They’ve got one person singing at their table and he gets two songs every round.  We have nine singing people for Chrissake!”

“I don’t make the rules, man, I just apply them.”

“What a cop-out.  I’ll tell you what.  I’m going to invite a girl over for a drink.  She can sit at our table. And that makes ten.  Now we get two songs per rotation.  How about it?”

“No.  That’s cheating.”

“Come on, I’ll invite that waitress over there.  The chubby one with the fat ankles and the Minnie Mouse shoes.” 

“Which waitress?”

“That one.  The one that looks like an alcoholic.”

“That’s my wife.”

“Oh.  Hm.  Ah.   I was kidding!  It was a joke!” 

“It didn’t sound like a joke.”

“Seriously, when are you gonna play my Elvis song?  People have had it up to fucking here with Phil Collins.  Sussudio.  That’s not even a real word! When are you gonna play Blue Christmas?”

“When I decide.  Not when you decide.”

“Oh, I see.  So this is a power trip.”

“It’s not a power trip.”

“Admit it, you’re power tripping on this thing.  Just a little bit.  You’ve got control of the knobs. You’ve got the stack of requests, and you know what I think? I think you’re giving out the song selection to your friends.  The regulars with bad teeth and worse haircuts and the beer-barrel bellies, because the only time they go out is when they come here!” 

“Are you finished?”

“You’re giving us the shaft, man, cuz we’re not regulars!”

“Step down from my control booth.”  

“Step down from your control booth?  Ha!  You talk like a cop.  Get a grip, this is a closet with a karaoke machine.  Control booth!” 

“Step down.”

“You know what?  I bet you’d make a good cop.  But not like a real cop.  I mean, this is karaoke.  No, you’d be a traffic cop.  One of those meter maids.  Oh, you’d let your friends park for free, sure!  Or your family.  Or the karaoke regulars.  But as soon as an outsider stopped and left his car running for two minutes, because his wife’s about to give birth, you’d run right out of the donut shop and dock him with a ticket.”

“You know, you’re really starting to annoy me.”

“So, get rid of me.  Play Elvis.”

“Get out of my booth.”

“Play fucking Elvis and all of this will be over.”

“Get out.”

“Play Elvis and all this will just be a bad memory.”

“You know what?  I’m not playing Elvis.”

“Traffic cop.  Loser!  Failed cop loser.  Loser fucking failed traffic cop whose only joy in life is ruining karaoke night for a group of friends who just want to sing Blue Christmas.”

“Get out!”

“Make me.”

“Out of my booth!”

“Sissy.  Why don’t you call Lionel Richie over here?  Maybe he can make me.”

“Don’t make me throw you out.”

“Why don’t you call over your slag wife with the truck driver sized hands and she can take a sh—”