Dear Karaoke Master

I've been at this bar for an hour and you've been up onstage five times so far.  I have seen you more than my bartender.  You are a pasty guido wanna-be wearing too much CK-1 and way too much hair gel.  My bartender is a saucy little Pacific Islander who gives me free drinks.  You stand about as much chance of being my favorite out of the two as I have of finishing a marathon. 

I put in a slip to sing, but the forty other songs you already have in have swallowed it like Madonna on date night.  I wasn't aware that Ratt had that many songs.  On top of that, you were threatening to pour sugar on people and then rock them like a hurricane. Well, buddy, I don't negotiate with terrorists. I will turn this bar into my own miniature version of Die Hard if it means I get to drop you off a roof at the end.

If the noxious stench of the half gallon of cologne you are sweating out through your pores didn't make me nauseous, your stage act certainly would push it over.  I can only imagine how many times you practiced this in front of an episode of Glee.  Last time I checked, you didn't need to close your eyes soulfully while singing Bon Jovi, and the only things giving love a bad name are the urgent pleas for sex you are throwing at every girl too drunk to run away from the area around the stage.

I see what you did there.  Originally, the bridge of "Paradise City" is just, "So far away" repeated four times but you changed that to "Hey, you in the stripes.  Wanna go out behind my car and suck it?"  Had Axl thought of that, the band may have stayed together. 

I keep hoping you will get too drink to get onstage, but it seems that you've only just gotten drunk enough to sing songs meant for women singers.  I wish I could write something horrible and witty about this, but once you got into Adele's "Someone Like You" I simply stood up, yelled "Nope" and walked out of the bar.