Hell is a Karaoke Bar

If it’s true that people are often given the choice of being a slave in heaven or a star in hell, when your turn comes, choose wisely. At ten o’clock in bars all across our country, failed musicians and drunken patrons grab hold of a microphone and MC or compete (Oh make no mistake, it is a competition.) to be the one whose karaoke skills woo dozens. Has-beens hosting never-beens.

There will be girls exhaling, old men ogling young women, and college men saying they love each other… man. On stage will be a guy who thinks he’s funny or a woman who has “stage personality.” The performers run the gamut from people with no confidence who ham it up, to those who think they’re incredible (they aren’t,) to those who are genuinely good, to those who, regardless of their vocal ability, take it all way to seriously.

At the bar there’s a couple going through a circus-like drama. You don’t want to hear it, but you can’t turn away. In a few moments they’ll get up and sing “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” together.

On your other side is a middle-aged woman who is unbelievably hot. You know this because she’s telling you so. She tells you she’s unavailable. You can’t have her even though you want her so badly. You must, she’s just told you so. Try all you want, she’s not going to sleep with you. You know how this will end. She fills out a request slip for “Don’t You Want Me Baby.”

At the end of the bar is the girl from last summer. You’re embarrassed to be talking to the woman next to you, but you can’t walk away without the summer girl thinking you want to make yourself available to her. If you stay, she’ll assume talking to the soon-to-be grandmother is some pathetic attempt to make her jealous. You hope Summer Girl leaves soon. She gets up and sings “These Boots Were Made for Walkin’.”

Next, an old fellow gets up and sings Britney Spears. (Not bad actually.) A high school student with a fake ID sings Sinatra. (He oversells it.) A longhair with white cowboy boots sings Ozzy. (He totally shreds. Gets up on a chair and everything.)

You leave with the super hot unavailable chick. Ah, salvation. Drunken fools seeking out a piece of pleasure in a tortured night. The door breaks open and together you fall into her war zone of an apartment. (Thank god she can’t see yours.) She asks if you want a drink or something to eat. No. Want to talk? (Great, here come the hoops.) No. Are you just here for sex? Yes. Told what a pig you are, you get up and leave. Halfway down the stairs she calls you back. The cat poops on the coffee table and you have to wait for her to clean up. (The table and the cat.)

Sex.

The sun is rising and you walk home, taking white smoke into your lungs and tasting it wisp back out over your tongue. There is a desperately unkempt apartment, a hangover, and a distant sense of regret waiting for you a block away. Why do you do this to yourself?
Someone has to be Satan laughing with delight.