The very
next night after that conversation, my one hippie friend from Michigan and I
were doing a crossword at the (black) neighborhood bar, and the DJ played this
house song with a simulated orgasm very often intertwined with the beat.
“Remember
my first time ever at karaoke and there was a French anesthesiologist
singing that one song with the moaning?, my friend was like.
“No,” I
was like, and then paused.
“Male or female?”.
“Female,”
she was like.
“Was it
[name of a French woman I know]?”, I was like, “Or did we not know her.”
“We
didn’t know her, but we were talking with her afterwards.”
Then,
she was like, “And the karaoke host had a mullet,” which was obviously this one karaoke host who I used to patronize year ago, though after a
few more questions, we couldn’t figure out which bar we must have been at.
“Don’t
worry,” my friend was like, brightly.
“You’ve been to so many bars, it’s understandable!”
She also
was pretty sure the song that the French anesthesiologist sang was Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You Baby”.
She then shrugged and grimaced.
“Whatever
she sang, it was *not* a good karaoke song,” she was like.
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