I have heard some terrible, awful things in my time. But nothing to date — not death cries, not break-up speeches, not the sound of my own wrist breaking into splinters on impact with a wooden beam — compared to tonight.

Picture, if you can, little orphan Annie. Now picture her with double D breasts and black hair, squeezed into spandex Le Chateau gear that eliminates imagination as an option. Now, picture her on a cheap wooden stage holding a microphone and a beer, belting out Sinatra’s classic ‘New York, New York’ at the absolute top of her nasal, glass-shattering range. This is the horror that is karaoke night at the Milwaukee.

I will admit, there were a few shining moments. Heartfelt renditions of Digital Underground’s ‘Humpty Dance’, Metallica’s ‘Enter Sandman’ and Guns N’ Roses’ ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ stand out in my now blissfully fading memory. I sang along heartily to each of these. At least three people were semi-professional sounding. Simple Minds and David Bowie were given a decent show.

But then there were the atrocities. Tiffany. Ricky Martin. Poor, poor Wayne Newton. Motherfucking Meatloaf and his goddamn Dashboard odyssey. I timed it, and Wagner’s entire ring cycle can actually be done on a karaoke stage by amateurs in less time than one full-length run (and sadly, there is no other kind) of that song. “No, I will not sleep on it”, he should have said. “Get out of my car or lay me, bitch!” he should have said. But noooooo. Penis conquers sense once again. Fucking Meatloaf.

The evening was sort of doomed from the beginning. I spent the night with a group of total strangers, my common link to them having stayed home to tend to her sick boyfriend, leaving me to fend for myself. Things were going well at Tortilla Flats. I met my freshly minted friend Karaoke Amy, with whom I have shared bubble tea once last week and saw earlier today, leading to tonight’s shenanigans. She was there with her new beau, Tim, who is lead singer for the indie rock band ‘Nurse’. We talk, and there is laughter and goodness. Conversation turns to relationships, and my current single status comes into play. Tim then gets very excited about the idea of setting me up with his drummer, Barron. Very, very excited.

One surreptitious cell phone call later, who should join us at the bar but Barron and two ladies. “Ah!” I think. “I am saved! He already has female companionship for this evening.” Not so much. One of the women is his sister, the other appears to be a work friend of some sort. Fine. He is reticent to speak, and clearly sort of drunk. Fine. We pay our tab and saunter over to the Horseshoe to see ‘The Dunes’ play their set. Fine.

A few pinball games and some awkward jokes about hot nuts for sale later, I end up artfully left at the bar with shy Barron. Tim has now got the sister on board, and Amy is fully into the hook-up. (I recognize this is somewhat breaking my rule about no boy talk, but I call a technicality since romance and dating in no way enter into this scenario.) We have a brief chat where he asks me what I do for a living.

[Aside: a handy note for men, this may be the worst conversation opener ever with a woman you are hoping will sleep with you. Her job is without question NOT the most interesting thing about her. And if it is, why do you want to be with her?]

I win a shiny dime off of him by betting my day job is more boring than his (he’s a film production coordinator), and decide I can probably kill his interest in me in ten seconds or less if I make it abundantly clear that I am a comic book geek. This backfires. He asks what sort of comics I like.

[Aside: ladies, brace yourself for this line of questioning in all areas of media. Have something easy prepared. Do not start to list obscure bands / movies / authors that the guy will never know. Also, if conversation is EVER this awkward or stilted, just leave money on the bar and get the heck out of Dodge. Learn from my mistakes.]

We continue on with my interrogation until happily, the band starts to play. I then lose myself in the glorious noise as my gallant pursuer loses himself at the less glorious bar. Eventually our group tires of the musical stylings of ‘The Dunes’ and we decide to do some styling of our own.

Fishing Barron out of his pitcher, we head over to Milwaukee’s for karaoke. Mister Congeniality finds his way into another pitcher, but is enough of a gentleman to periodically grab my ass, letting me know he still cares about me almost as much as he cares about hops. His wingman Tim has broadened his pimping approach to include speeches like “Don’t be shy! You can totally just take this guy home and do Kegel exercises on him! He’s yours for the sexing!”

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why am I still at this bar? I know you are thinking this because I am thinking this also. I am ready to leave. Despite the restless desire to socialize brought on by five consecutive days of no-work, I want to go home. My hot pink chariot awaits me, parked outside Tortilla Flats on Queen. Yet out of respect for Karaoke Amy and for Barron’s sister (who was really a lot of fun and a great dancer), I felt compelled to stay. This was the wrong thing to do.

At last call, Karaoke Amy & Co. promptly abandoned me to the clutches of Barron the Absurdly Drunk, who insisted on walking me to my bike. We performed this slow, weaving task with me supporting a great deal of his weight and subduing his frequent concerns that we were in no way heading north. Along the way, he tried to solicit from me the pressing information he’d been working up the liquid courage to ask all evening. 1) If I had a classified ad in Eye, SWF styles, how would it read? 2) Why hadn’t I asked him to come home with me yet? and 3) Where was my home and how were we going to get there?

I unlocked my bike and hailed a cab to take Drunky McShitfaced to his home. I went to give him the obligatory goodnight peck on the cheek and got the full monty instead. I almost threw up in his mouth. I then biked and biked and biked and got home and showered and showered and showered and sat down and wrote this. And now I am going to bed to sweet dreams of taking holy orders and becoming a nun.

Tomorrow I am going to STAY HOME ALL DAY and READ COMIC BOOKS. This evening has only served to cement my opinion that boys are bad news and should be avoided.