Sunday, March 27, 2011

Who Stepped on the Cat?

It's time to discuss one of my biggest pet peeves. Because, gentle reader, stupidity doesn't always escape Joe Average's piehole in the form of words. Sometimes, it's sung. Poorly.

Singing in public is not okay. Its just not. Actually, it's pretty fucking weird. And, I'm not talking about humming along to the tune thats on the radio, or belting it out in your car like a rockstar while you're stopped at a redlight and oblivious to the other motorists staring at you like you've lost your mind. Those, to me, are somewhat acceptable behaviors that even I have been known to engage in.

I'm talking about the people that, despite the fact that they are out in full view of an unsuspecting world, decide to treat all of us to a broad display of their vocal talents. Listen, maybe you can sing, maybe you're the next undiscovered American Idol... But, you still need to shut the fuck up.

I work side-by-side with a guy that sings all night. Did I say all night? Because, I meant: All. Fucking. Night. This cat isn't just in love with the sound of his own voice, he's convinced the rest of us are too. I have more than a few problems with this.

First of all, if you've never worked in a full service kitchen, I'm here to inform you that its already pretty noisy. It generally sounds like a civil war is being fought and lost. And, you usually have about 4 or 5 different areas that are all working independently of each other to create the same order. So, communications is pretty key.

I'm already at the point where I can barely hear myself think, let alone focus on what 3 or 4 other cooks are trying to impart to me over all the noise. Having Captain Karaoke caterwauling in my ear makes me want to bob for apples in the deep fryer.

Secondly, if you don't know all the words to a song... let it go. Lately, the good Captain has been belting out (at the top of his fucking lungs) about three lines of a Conway Twitty song. Over and over and over and over... I'm not sure what late night infomercial he was watching when he picked up that song snippet, but if I ever find out, I'm driving to the television studio and going fully postal on the asshat that aired it.

Thats the worst possible thing to do to another human being. Getting a song stuck in your head is bad enough. Having one stuck in your head that you don't know the lyrics to is worse than the torture we reputedly committed on known terrorists following 9/11. I'm fairly certain it's listed in the Geneva Convention as inhumane.

Third... We're at work, dumbass. It isn't pleasant. In fact, I generally refer to it as: Hell's Kitchen. I equate singing with happiness. What the fuck are you so happy about?! I'm currently only daydreaming about what it will take to facilitate both of our deaths. In case the look on my face and my body language isn't cluing you in, let me be upfront and forward in telling you that you're pushing that little fantasy towards reality.

And finally, Captain, you may knock their socks off at karaoke night, your old high school Glee Coach may miss you with a nostalgia that borders on inappropriateness, you may think you sound like Marvin fucking Gaye, but personally, I'm not impressed. I've heard better. In point of fact, I had to pay to hear better, because, thats what they do for a living. You cook. Shut your face and do that, instead of sending me home with a nightly migraine that has less to do with noise and more to do with the stress of maintaining my self-control in not jumping on you like a spider monkey and choking you until your eyes bugged from your face like a frog. M'kay?

It drives me up a wall that grown adults need to be told that: A, B, and C are acceptable behaviors in public, and D through Z are not.

They have karaoke night at the bar and Open Mic Night at the clubs for a reason. I've never walked into work with three bowling pins and commenced juggling while working on my stand-up routine. I could, but I'm pretty sure someone would pull me off to the side an inquire if I needed medication or had taken some that I bought off the shady looking guy on the street corner. Yet, in my mind, doing that is exactly the same as you coming into work and reminding all of us that William Hung is still alive, somewhere.

It's great that you have an ipod, iphone, iwhateverhelpsbillgatestocontinuefleecingtheamericanpopulace, or any other device that plays your music for you as you go about your day. But, you don't need to sing along. In fact, listening is generally an art that is perfected by you shutting your mouth. So, if you want to listen to music...try that.

Also, if your choice in music has vulgar and/or inappropriate lyrics, you have zero business reiterating that shit outloud in a public place. I can't tell you how many times I've been in line at the gas station or grocery store in my ghetto fabulous community and been treated to someone rapping about women being sluts and hos and wanting to see them shake their booty meat. For real?

I'm not knocking your choice of music. I listen to punk rock. It isn't clean. Not by any stretch of the imagination. But, I also don't sing it at top volume while I'm standing in line at the grocery store behind some poor mother trying, in vain, to shield her kids from it.

Also, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but: rap is not an ethnic trait. It's talent related. Just because you are black, it does not make you The Human Beatbox.

Keep chuckling honkies. I have worse news for you. Just because you're white and choose to dress like a historical figure... You ain't Garth Brooks. Lose the twang, you're from the suburbs.

Here's what I would like from the rest of America: when you're leaving the house, and you're checking to make sure you have your keys, your purse or wallet, and all the other sundries that you tote about...can you make sure you've grabbed your fucking common sense? Because, if you do, I promise you that you will suddenly understand that there is a way to act in public. And, most of you aren't doing it right!

You're an amateur singer? Well shit on me. I'm an amateur porn star. So, if you can rape my ear... Guess I can walk around with my God Given Talents dangling about and proceed with the nut busting, right? And trust me, when it comes to white washing, Tom Sawyer has nothing on me...

Now, if you'll all excuse me, I feel the need to walk over to local convenience store and bust out in air guitar solo...sans pants.

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