Bro, listen to me.
I know you weren’t even gonna come out tonight. Long week. Rent’s late. Life is a fucking joke. But none of that matters now, because you are about to become a god.
You need to sing “The Bad Touch” by Bloodhound Gang. Right now. This exact moment.
Picture it: First few notes hit. The bartenders start pouring shots preemptively. People you’ve never met turn to watch, sensing something historic is about to happen. You say “Put your hands down my pants and I bet you’ll feel nuts” and someone in the back fucking chokes on their beer. You hit “Come quicker than FedEx” and that chick you’ve been awkwardly eyeing at the bar collapses to the floor in ecstasy. You get to “Love, the kind you clean up with a mop and bucket,” and the whole crowd starts screaming like a goddamn Beatles concert.
The crowd will be feral. Drinks in the air. Underwear on the stage. The DJ nodding in solemn respect. Bartenders giving you free shots, maybe for life. They’ll tell stories about this night forever.
You could leave with anyone here. You could take ownership of this bar. You could declare yourself mayor of this entire fucking town.
Actually, no. Think bigger.
“The Bad Touch” is too easy, too cliche. You need a deep cut from Hooray for Boobies. Something for the real ones.
“Mope”. That is the one. It’s art. It’s culture. It’s the human experience. The bouncer will have to physically restrain women from running onstage to kiss you.
Oh, what the fuck, there are three people ahead of you?! What are they even singing? Look at this absolute dweeb getting on stage right now. If this guy sings “Tennessee Whiskey” you are legally allowed to drag him off the stage and kick his ass.
What a disaster. This is taking way too long. Is this even a good idea? Why are you even doing this?
Fuck this. Fuck karaoke. We need to talk. Meet me in the bathroom.