I remember my own wedding as if it were yesterday: my best friend getting wasted and then projectile vomiting after the rehearsal dinner, my mother’s third husband getting into a screaming match with my soon-to-be mother-in-law the morning of the big day, and my spouse’s drunken childhood friend giving the toast to end all toasts, chock full of f-bombs and air drumming.
Unfortunately, we didn’t have an Uncle Sal, aka Ashley, to make the day fully complete by devoting a song to us that may or may not have won the Grammy a couple of years ago. Does anyone else think this guy bears a striking resemblance to a cross between Harry Dean Stanton from his Pretty in Pink days and Boris Karloff as the monster in Frankenstein? Oh and, Ash – can I call you Ash? – methinks the DJ was trying to do you a favor by keeping the volume low on your mic.
With each note, the suspense builds. Nostrils flaring, eyebrows quivering. Is he going to burst into tears? Have an orgasm? Make his head explode? Attract a goose looking for a suitable mate? No. He’s just going to sing us five octaves on the pee-ana and then walk away, with his completely non-ironic facial hair and striped shirt fully intact, leaving us breathless and wanting for more.
Perhaps you’ve reached the point where you’re asking yourself, “How exactly do they pick the awesomely bad videos for Not Very Talented?” Well, I’ve gotta tell you – it’s not as easy as it looks. Here’s a little sampling of what it took for this post:
Colleague: Hey, aren’t you supposed to be looking for videos of bad singers and stuff?
Me: I am.
Colleague: That’s a dog.
Me: I know, right?! It’s like, learn how to sing, dog. AM I RIGHT?!
Colleague: I dunno. I think he sings pretty well for a dog.
Me: Uh, no. I mean, hello? B-flat? Come on! Just look at how embarrassed his dog friend looks.
Colleague: [blank stare]
…and the reason it suddenly stopped. And, no, I don’t think it looks real either. I really, really wish it was, though. Even more than I wish Madonna had never recorded “Ray of Light.” Well, almost as much.
Here’s the deal with me mocking the bad singers and dancers of the world and still being able to sleep at night: I am one of you. I love to sing and dance – loud, flailing, looking like a damn fool in the process. And if you ever see me in the act, I encourage you to throw out your own witticisms.
Now onto Mr. Intensity. The singing? Not great, obvs. The periodic bore-a-hole-through-me glances at the camera, the bulging neck veins, and the death grip he’s got on that mic as he sits alone in his dark living room with the curtains drawn? Well, these things only allow me to draw one conclusion, which is that he wants to kill me and add my mangled remains to the ones already in his basement – allegedly.
@notverytalented
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