Saturday saw the return of The Rev. He didn't want to come back. Not at first.
No, he HAD to come back.
For as Valentine's Day approached, the climate was turning to love. An emotion and mental state that I want nothing to do with. And one that The Rev hates...
Boomer and I were out looking for trouble, and we found it in the form of Ginny's. If Jimtown was where karaoke went to die it's proper redneck death, then Ginny's was where preppy fuckers brought the corpse of karaoke out to show it off in the hopes it would get them laid.
We were not able to coax the Daughter out of bed for this affair, but we had brought a cheering section that was hoping to see The Rev in action. But I said no. He would not appear tonight.
And then they started singing. Scary women warbling Weezer songs. Young men with cowboy hats badly belting George Thorogood. And something in me began to stir. My leg began to bounce rapidly. I started to fidgit. My mouth went dry. And then it snapped.
"Hand me that song binder."
The Rev had returned.
I took the stage to the cheers of my compatriots, and without even thinking, grabbed the mike.
"I'd like to dedicate this song to my ex-girlfriend...Happy Valentine's Day, bitch!"
In the ensuing 4-plus minutes, I executed one crotch-chop, gave a mid-song shout-out to NPR, performed an improptu Ronnie Spector vocal run, and overall strangled the hell out of The Who's "You Better You Bet."
I left the stage to a standing ovation of about three, botched two fist-punches by instead trying to high-five, and sat my ass down, allowing The Rev to return from whence he came.
I think I may have found my calling.
No, he HAD to come back.
For as Valentine's Day approached, the climate was turning to love. An emotion and mental state that I want nothing to do with. And one that The Rev hates...
Boomer and I were out looking for trouble, and we found it in the form of Ginny's. If Jimtown was where karaoke went to die it's proper redneck death, then Ginny's was where preppy fuckers brought the corpse of karaoke out to show it off in the hopes it would get them laid.
We were not able to coax the Daughter out of bed for this affair, but we had brought a cheering section that was hoping to see The Rev in action. But I said no. He would not appear tonight.
And then they started singing. Scary women warbling Weezer songs. Young men with cowboy hats badly belting George Thorogood. And something in me began to stir. My leg began to bounce rapidly. I started to fidgit. My mouth went dry. And then it snapped.
"Hand me that song binder."
The Rev had returned.
I took the stage to the cheers of my compatriots, and without even thinking, grabbed the mike.
"I'd like to dedicate this song to my ex-girlfriend...Happy Valentine's Day, bitch!"
In the ensuing 4-plus minutes, I executed one crotch-chop, gave a mid-song shout-out to NPR, performed an improptu Ronnie Spector vocal run, and overall strangled the hell out of The Who's "You Better You Bet."
I left the stage to a standing ovation of about three, botched two fist-punches by instead trying to high-five, and sat my ass down, allowing The Rev to return from whence he came.
I think I may have found my calling.
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that pic was so cute!