I suppose there’s no use attempting to hide the humiliation of our street. Just this evening, our neighbor Eric (the one that the head of our home owners association tried to imply was connected to the mafia, not the other one) was hosting a rocking xmas party. In the twenty years we’ve owned this house, R man and I redecorated two bathrooms and the kitchen; Eric installed a hot tub and a keg dispenser. PAH TAY. It would be just like a frat house if only there were a few humpy, sexually curious frat boys. No such luck.
But tonight we plumbed depths I never thought such a quiet, respectable street would know. As I was floating in my bath, trying to think of way to remind myself to block a Facebook lowlife when I’m dry, I heard Eric crank up…, well, there is no other way to say it, a KARAOKE machine.
I know, I know, how will we residents hold our heads up at the grocery store? It’s one thing to have a mafioso down the block (in fact, I can see how it might be handy,) but to have the machine that led to the zombie-like, undying path of “Afternoon Delight”?
I actually have no idea what the guests were taking a crack at. It certainly didn’t resemble any tune I’m familiar with. And of course, it has to be a fancy one replete with special effects that make your voice sound like it’s coming through the Flock of Seagulls’ synthesizer. Or maybe that’s what the chick who was taking her turn actually sounds like. If so, it would explain her enthusiasm. This is probably the only time anyone will ever let her warbling out.
There is only one answer. I have to sell this house and do so PDQ, before word gets out just what kind of neighbors comes with it. Damn.
Playgirl Centerfolds of the 70s and 80s: the Karaoke of Porn