Man Law: Never let your boy sing alone
Jamie Poster
Issue date: 2/27/07 Section: Sports
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So last Friday night, I decided to hit up the local watering hole down on the corner of York and Orkney. You know, to participate in one of America's National Pastimes. Baseball? Oh, hell no. It was karaoke time.
Now, one of the fundamental principles (man laws?) of this serenading extravaganza at such a fine establishment (see: Murphy's) is that a man requires a partner to help him out during "that song."
But when the time came for my roommate and me to sing Springsteen's "Born to Run," he decided to sit it out, citing the usual cop-out: "I can't carry a tune."
Well, that was just too bad. Even the local patron, Moe, knows you never turn on your boy like that. Excuses turned to insults, and insults turned to threats.
Quickly identifying the fiery verbal exchange, Frank the Tank and a few other rugby players stepped in between us to make sure words didn't turn into punches.
I started to calm down a little, and moseyed my way up the always dangerous York Road (because I'm hard like that… and I refuse to pay a cabbie five bucks) back to my dorm room.
Stumbling into my apartment, all I could see was the maniacal face laughing in my mug as my teammate decided to shun me and make me look like an ass in public. "I'll show him," I thought.
But how? What can one man do to punish those who have broken the sacred laws of karaoke?
Scanning the apartment for ideas, the shimmer of my 41-degree Callaway Big Bertha 9-iron screamed out to me in a language that I could understand. Use me.
"That sounds like an excellent idea!" I told the golf club.
Luckily, the rational part of my brain -- the part called common sense -- informed me that striking my roommate with a golf club in a fit of rage was not a good idea. Needless to say, if I hadn't listened to my sense, I probably wouldn't be here writing this column for The Greyhound.
But, then again, I'm not Craig Bellamy either.
Obviously Bellamy, a man worth millions of dollars, doesn't see anything wrong with greeting his teammate with a 9-iron in the wee hours of the morning.
Now, one of the fundamental principles (man laws?) of this serenading extravaganza at such a fine establishment (see: Murphy's) is that a man requires a partner to help him out during "that song."
But when the time came for my roommate and me to sing Springsteen's "Born to Run," he decided to sit it out, citing the usual cop-out: "I can't carry a tune."
Well, that was just too bad. Even the local patron, Moe, knows you never turn on your boy like that. Excuses turned to insults, and insults turned to threats.
Quickly identifying the fiery verbal exchange, Frank the Tank and a few other rugby players stepped in between us to make sure words didn't turn into punches.
I started to calm down a little, and moseyed my way up the always dangerous York Road (because I'm hard like that… and I refuse to pay a cabbie five bucks) back to my dorm room.
Stumbling into my apartment, all I could see was the maniacal face laughing in my mug as my teammate decided to shun me and make me look like an ass in public. "I'll show him," I thought.
But how? What can one man do to punish those who have broken the sacred laws of karaoke?
Scanning the apartment for ideas, the shimmer of my 41-degree Callaway Big Bertha 9-iron screamed out to me in a language that I could understand. Use me.
"That sounds like an excellent idea!" I told the golf club.
Luckily, the rational part of my brain -- the part called common sense -- informed me that striking my roommate with a golf club in a fit of rage was not a good idea. Needless to say, if I hadn't listened to my sense, I probably wouldn't be here writing this column for The Greyhound.
But, then again, I'm not Craig Bellamy either.
Obviously Bellamy, a man worth millions of dollars, doesn't see anything wrong with greeting his teammate with a 9-iron in the wee hours of the morning.
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