I picked him up from his dad’s after the weekend, and I could tell…. something was amiss. He looked – haunted somehow. He had Not Had A Good Weekend, that much was clear. I probed, gently, he was non-committal. The Drama and I have always been close, I knew he’d share when he was ready.
As we pulled up to my house he gathered himself. This was it. He was ready to unburden himself of the terrible weight he was carrying.
“The worst thing about the weekend,” he said, “was Yoko”.
Yoko is The Ex’s Japanese* girlfriend. Her name is not Yoko. She has never broken up The Beatles, or anyone else as far as I know. She is probably a very nice person who I will have a lovely time chatting to one day at a kid’s wedding or something. But no one on this blog goes by their real name, and she seems like a “Yoko”, and if she’s hitching her perky little red wagon to The Ex’s star, being called “Yoko” on a blog she’s not even aware of is nowhere NEAR the most annoying thing that’s going to happen to her.
But apparently, she hurt my baby. I was surprised – The Drama seems to like Yoko well enough; plus she has dogs, and he likes dogs.
“What….what did Yoko do, Honey?” I asked, with great sensitivity (underneath which, of course, was the quiet certainty that depending what my baby said next, I would end her).
The Drama turned to me with hollow eyes, a faint quiver in his lip. “She…… brought over a karaoke machine….”
Oh Lord. Oh, Lordy Lordy Lordy.
Lord have mercy. I needed to open the car door and lean out, head between my knees, until the dizziness passed.
What you need to understand, Gentle Reader, is that The Ex can NOT sing. At all. No really, he’s horrible. Horrible. There really is no way to exaggerate how epically, atrociously awful he is. When we used to attend church together, I had to discreetly lean away from him to avoid being thrown off key myself, and also throwing up a little in my mouth. If he ever goes to Hell, Satan will immediately book him as the headlining act on an eternal tour of the Underworld’s hottest concert venues (if Satan is feeling particularly vindictive, he will also have him dance). You know how we never hear about water-boarding anymore? I’m pretty sure that’s because the NSA has recorded The Ex singing, and is playing it on an endless loop through Guantanamo; reducing vicious, hardened terrorists to weeping, writhing blobs. Probably a good portion of our defense budget is going to buy noise cancelling headphones for the guards, and the agent who recorded The Ex has been put on compassionate psychological leave.
He’s that bad.
I only ever met one person who was worse, and that was not because he was actually worse, but just as bad, and also really LOUD. This was also in church**, and there was no leaning away from this fellow, especially if he was right behind you. He bellowed at a volume normal people require a megaphone to achieve. It got so I didn’t dare take a seat if there were ANY empty spots in the row behind. I’d scan as I came in, hoping he was already there, so I could sit as far away as possible. One week, he was sitting on the other side and closer to the front, and halfway through the music the poor young lady in front of him gave up all pretense of cheerful worship, sat down, and leaned forward with her hands over her ears.
So The Ex is NOT that loud, but he IS that bad, and now apparently his girlfriend has given him a microphone. And sings with him, so he is also accompanied by a Japanese lady who is (according to The Drama) another musical abomination***
I can only imagine The Drama’s pain. And I can actually, because I lived with The Ex for 26 years, AND I have an excellent imagination.
“It hurt me” whispered The Drama, “in my soul. My musical theater soul”. He might have stifled a manly sob at that point. When we got inside I went to YouTube and found the clip of Cameron Diaz singing badly in the karaoke scene from My Best Friend’s Wedding.
“Was it this bad?” I asked The Drama.
“It was worse” he replied, without hesitation.
I haven’t even told you the very worst part yet. Apparently, they were singing Taylor Swift.
See, that’s child abuse, right there. Really, I’m like 90% sure I could get full custody if The Ex just sang for the judge…..
I asked The Drama for a quote to wrap up this post, which is frankly starting to meander.
“RIP ears”, he said.
*I think she’s Japanese. I feel vaguely racist that I’m not sure. But not enough to care.
**what is with crappy musical experiences in church? No wonder Millennials are fleeing established religion….*
***Huh. Maybe Yoko is more apt than I thought…..
*that was a JOKE, religious friends. Not a good one, I admit, but let’s face it; probably one you can take if you’re still reading this after my crack about Satan’s piss in the last post……