Witnesses will testify that my karaoke party-piece is a weirdly thin and squeaky version of Son of a Preacher Man. But then, karaoke is more about the singer’s pleasure than the unadulterated musical delight of their hapless
But something is rotten in the state of Empty Orchestra. Note how the lady above appears to be taking advantage of my temporary absence from the scene to muscle in and steal some of my karaoke glory. That is no innocent beehive she is flaunting, the brazen hussy. Oh no. Look past the trivial detail of its colour. It’s a blatant “Dusty” ‘do.
Well let me tell you, you lacquered-up floozy, that no one, I repeat, NO ONE does that Dusty song but ME. I am Son of a Preacher Man. Don’t you even think about coming over here with your silly pouffy hair howling into the mic with big eyes and a voice like breaking hearts over ground glass.
I’m giving you one friendly warning. (This one). Stuff thy ridiculous coiffure (clearly a perruque) in a basket, get thee hence and find thyself another karaoke box. And take your stupid friend and his Michael “The Man With Two Haircuts” Bolton hair with you. You’ll only make yourself look silly when it comes to your inevitable defeat at my hands.
Karaoke Domination Will Be Mine.
Do I really need to do a maniacal cackle with the echo on now?
No. Didn't think so.