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I have an announcement.

A confession.

A heart felt exclamation intended to express something that splits my heart in two as surely as if it were the victim of a revolutionary guillotine, whenever I am exposed to it heinous presence.

I hate karaoke!

No, hate is a too feeble a word.

I loath its pustulent, delusional influence, to an almost molecular level.

I can feel my amino acids begin to congeal if someone even mentions the word.

When I hear grown men, or pissed giggling girls, who to be fair, have the vocal ability of mating hedgehogs, crooning honey dripped love songs, or struggling to hit the high notes of 80’s pop rock songs, soaked in the alcohol that gave them the Dutch courage to make them believe that they’re talented, sexy or sane, I totally understand the urge to kill my fellow man!

At first it posed as a novelty, something shipped over with rice wine and sushi. But it has grown insidiously over time to manifest itself now in karaoke bars, grotesque TV shows, computer games and home stereo units, so that the whole family can engage in this repugnant combination of auditory exhibitionism and Freudian oral fixation.

Yes, now your friends and family can pop round and share the communal experience of simulated fellatio with a microphone, while desperately trying to keep up with the lyrics as that pulse across the TV screen.

It’s a laugh, its fun!

No.

It is a lie.

The irony that seems to have escaped the other parts of the world into which Karaoke has been introduced, is that the only people who are fully capable of  understanding and appreciating it are the Japanese. Karaoke is like those local dishes you may occassionally encounter if you are of the ilk that travel to the far flung lands, you know, like sheeps eyeballs, or soups whose main ingredient tends to be animals testicles. Like these delicacies,  Karaoke was never meant to be exported.

It is not safe for other minds. Its way, way too dangerous. You know those sad fuckers you see on the X Factor, the ones who look borderline learning disability or simply psychologically unhinged, wailing through Celine Dion or Whitney Houston tracks, their faces lost in almost ecstatic concentration.

They are there because of karaoke.

This apparently harmless pastime reinforces blind ignorance for those with a predisposition to wanting to be special. It plants a cancerous seed in their heads that in some cases will eventually lead them to national humiliation before the TV camera’s of such crass musical media events.

Who knows how many hopes have been shattered because of this kind of delusion. How many overdoses, or blood filled bathtubs have resulted from the fragile minded believing that they can stand up in front of their peers or a group of drunken strangers and do the vocal equivalent of standing on a stage, flopping out your todger and knocking one out over a passing barmaid.

It’s all to do with the modern cultural urge to be famous, to be a star, to make it big. Mostly with as little effort as possible! The problem is that it conveniently ignores the simple fact that the majority of people on this planet are not singers, or artists, or actors, or musicians, or in fact, creative in anyway whatsoever!

And that is a good thing, because in my experience, singers, artists, actors and musicians are often wretched, lazy, bitchy, egoistic animals who struggle to do a decent days work, if they even work in the first place.

And a world filled with them would simply not work.

Being normal seems to make pariahs of people in the Western world. It’s as if you’re some kind of social leper to live simple lives and do normal, everyday things.

It’s truly pathetic.

It could all boil down to needy people wanting to be noticed, to get their 30secs of fame, or it could be something worse. A deep urge to escape from a life they are told and indoctrinated into believing is not worthy.

I say fuck that.

Revel in being normal.

Rejoice in the mundane.

Throw that karaoke machine in the bin.

Firebomb the local karaoke bar.

You could be saving a life!

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