Top 10 Karaoke Songs

Needless to say, karaoke is all about making people uncomfortable. With that in mind, here’s a list of the best karaoke songs.

1. “I Touch Myself” by Divinyls

As they say, sing what you know. Obviously do accompanying inappropriate dance moves.

2. “Hello” by Lionel Richie

Please refer to the awesomely creepy music video and re-enact it as you sing.

3. “Party Rock Anthem” by LMFAO

All for this lyric: “I’m runnin’ through these hoes like Drano.” Genius product placement.

4. “Can You Take Me Higher” by Creed.

Self-explanatory. Also please note the name of the album on which this song appears: Human Clay. Looking back, it was all so obvious…

5. “Physical” by Olivia Newton John

Again, please refer to the painfully uncomfortable music video and re-enact it as you sing.

6. “You Oughta Know” by Alanis Morissette

Real crowd pleaser. Make sure to enunciate as Alanis does during the line, “Would she go down on you in a THEA-ter?”

7. “Daughters” by John Mayer

And while you’re singing it, give a line-by-line lesson in misogyny:

“Girls become lovers who turn into mothers…” —yes, because the only thing women are capable of and useful for is bearing children.

“On behalf of every man, looking out for every girl, you are the god and the weight of her world”–ummmmm WHAT? Blow me, John Mayer.

8. “Whenever, Wherever” by Shakira

Because this: “Lucky that my breasts are small and humble, so you don’t confuse them with mountains” (and mime along).

9. “Everybody (Backstreet’s Back)” by Backstreet Boys

Three words: “Am I SEX-ual?”

10. “Bills, Bills, Bills” by Destiny’s Child

Use it as a launching point to remain onstage after the song is over to host a discussion about just what exactly did happen to the 4th member of Destiny’s Child? And wait there were 5th and 6th members?! What don’t they want us to know?? What aren’t they telling us?? The way I see it, there are two possible answers: Beyoncé ate them for strength in her quest for world domination, or Beyoncé’s mom just ate them.

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Pet Names: Let’s Discuss

Part of me wishes I could be the person who uses pet names. The person who throws “babe” and “hon” and “baby” around like they’re bread crumbs and she’s a crazy lady feeding pigeons in Central Park. But it literally pains me to say them. Any time I try to work up the courage and choke out the words, I throw up a little bit in my mouth.

But I don’t really mind when other people use pet names. I kind of weirdly admire it, and sometimes even like it when they use them on me. As with everything, my emotions are mixed on the subject. I suppose the root of my ambivalence is that I don’t completely understand the point of pet names. I guess people want a term of endearment with which to refer to their significant other, but in that event, why not come up with something unique instead of relying on one of the tired, few, overused terms? And when used in non-romantic contexts, is the point just to make people feel special?

I do find myself wanting to strangle couples when I witness them in a “babe” volley:

“Babe, can you get the door?”

“Sure thing, babe.”

“Aww, thanks babe.”

“Babe, of course babe.”

“Babe I don’t know what I would do without you babe.”

“Likewise, babe.”

“No seriously babe, I forgot how to be a person.”

“Aww babe! I’m unhealthily codependent on you, too!”

“Like I don’t even remember my name, babe.”

“Neither do I, babe, but I’m sure it’s something neat.”

“Oh babe, I could never lose you. Literally–I have you on a leash.”

“Aww babe that’s so sweet. I don’t know what I would do without you either–I forgot how to wipe my own ass.”

And so on.

First of all, why “babe”? Who decided it’s sexy to refer to your romantic partner, the person you stick your genitals in and/or whose genitals you have stuck in you, as the thing that one births? Isn’t that a little bit incestuous? And secondly, come up with something more original if you must have a nickname for your lover. I feel like there are only 7 pet names in circulation, really: babe, baby, boo, honey, hon, sweetheart, sweetie. There are 7 billion people on the planet. What does that say about humans, that we have a 1/1,000,000,000 ratio of pet names to people? It says that our genius Greek ancestors who literally invented everything would be fucking disgraced, is what it says.

Actually come to think of it, I’m not sure I find even ‘unique’ pet names acceptable. Like, no one gives a fuck that you call your girlfriend “Kitten Kisses.” Keep it to yourself. Oh, you want to call your boyfriend “Beebster”? Not in my house. You refer to your husband as “Big Daddy”? Congratulations, you get off on fucking your father. You just can’t bear to be without your “Bunnykins”? Here’s what I think about that:

The more I think about it, I guess there are a few more than 7 pet names: doll, chica, lady, dear, mama. Oh god–this just keeps getting worse.

And when people use pet names outside of dating, it strikes me as boringly disingenuous. Like, at first I’m flattered when my dentist’s secretary calls me “sweetie,” but then I quickly shift to being offended. Like, does she think I think she thinks I’m special? Don’t patronize me–I know I’m just another notch on her floss. Frankly, it’s insulting. And when my friends call me “babe” or “doll,” I just want to say, “Listen, your attempt at making me feel especially considered by you has backfired marvelously, because I know you call everyone that, and I know you’re just trying to instill some false sense of bonding when really, you’re screwing my boyfriend behind my back, so please, just have the decency to call me by my name when you’re psychologically manipulating me with your sociopathy.” Ok so maybe I need to get new friends, but you get the point.

And just back to the romance point quickly–you KNOW that you aren’t the first and won’t be the last person your partner has called your designated pet name. Which makes it that much more fake! You should probably just break up now.

Ok, good talk. I feel like I learned a lot. You’re welcome.

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When you forget how to spell your name

at a mixer with some of the most powerful, influential people in Hollywood.


And then you spill food all over your shirt and then make friends with a portly lesbian when you see her spill her drink and tell her she’s NOT ALONE and then you accidentally boob-touch her and you think she thinks it wasn’t an accident because she just embraces you after.

Tips for Interacting with TSA

TSA is the WORST, amirite?! The ultimate power trippers–right up there with librarians, flight attendants, and mall cops. Arguably, all TSA employees are the least equipped and qualified people to hold their positions. I don’t think anyone has ever encountered a TSA agent and thought, “this person is smart.” So the fact that they’re given power is that much more frustrating, because their stupidity ensures that they’ll abuse it. Thusly, interacting with them is like tiptoeing across a tightrope over a minefield laced with eggshells. But with their incompetence also comes an opportunity for us to have fun. Here are some ways we can effectively navigate the delicate interaction with TSA while also entertaining ourselves.

Point out your belongings as TSA goes through your bags and gropes them.

E.g. “Oh, those are my tampons right there,” or, “Yep, those are my hemorrhoid wipes ,” or, “Uh huh, those are my mood stabilizers.”

Point out your body parts as TSA gropes them.

E.g. “Yep, those are my love handles you’ve got a nice, firm grasp on,” or, “Those were my boobs–not much there, I know.” Or, “HEY-O, this is the most action I’ve gotten in a long time.”

Ask them for clarification.

There’s usually one of them repeatedly yelling out instructions like, “Remove your shoes, all laptops must be out of their carriers in their own trays, and nothing should be in your pockets.” So your job is to say, “So I can keep my shoes on, my laptop in its bag, and my bus money in my pockets, right?” And when they correct you, go, “So take my shoes off?” and when they say “Yes,” just keep repeating the question: “OK so just so we’re clear, my shoes need to be off? Just so I’m understanding you correctly, I need to take my shoes off? Shoes off?”

When you have to raise your arms in the body scanner, flip your birds.

I dare them to call you out on it.

Engage them in a meaningful discussion about pop culture.

For example, say something like, “Kim Kardashian’s butt cannot be real–right? You’ve felt a lot of butts in your life, so you tell me.” Or, “Is it just me or did Robin Thicke completely not pull off that jail uniform during his 2013 VMA’s performance with Miley Cyrus?” Or, “Do you feel that John Travolta and Tom Cruise are gay lovers?”

Whisper “Don’t mention bombs!” loudly to everyone near you in line.

Ask them how often they racially profile people.

“Like, is it every brown person you see or just the ones with turbans?”

Ask them to explain the logic behind pre-check and other exceptions to TSA rules.

E.g. “I mean, it all seems pretty arbitrary to me. Like, one day, I get to go in the pre-check line because your iPad told you I could, but what if that’s the day I decide to hide explosives in my shoes? And also why are children under 12 and senior citizens exempt from the shoes rule? If anything, they wear the shoes that are going to be the most helpful in a terrorist attack–the kids’ shoes that light up would be a great cover for a blinking detonator, for example, and old people shoes have like miles-thick soles, so they could fit A LOT of heroin in there.”

Unload your personal problems on them.

For example, “My husband Jerry just left me for our daughter’s slut-of-a-preschool teacher, and right after that my Irritable Bowel Syndrome flared up, as it often does under stress, so I went to get a massage but the masseuse took one look at my soft, shitty body and said, ‘PASS,’ so here I am, about to get on a flight to meet Ashwin, the man I met online who I wired $50,000 to because he needed a route canal, but I haven’t heard from him since, so I figured I’d pay him a surprise visit. Romance is all about spontaneity, right?!”

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Alex vs. the Cunty Wells Fargo Manager

I’ll set the scene: At the bank, after I had talked to a couple tellers who couldn’t satisfactorily answer my question about why there was an 8-business day hold put on a check I deposited, when I know for a fact that the funds are available, the manager intervened (of her own accord–no one asked her to). Surprise surprise, she couldn’t answer my question either. Furthermore, she kept contradicting herself and the conflicting information the other bankers had given me.

At this point, we were both frustrated. I can’t say I was happy with the tone she was taking with me, but I’d say I was probably taking the equivalent tone with her–I would describe it was “aggravated”–but I didn’t think either of us had gotten to the point of inexcusably rude. But then, out of nowhere, she took the sass up several notches as she said to me:

“If you’re not going to talk to me like I’m a human being, I’m not going to help you.”

Me: “Wait what? How did we get there? Do you mean I’m talking to you like you’re an animal? I actually prefer animals to human beings, so if I was talking to you like you’re an animal, I’d be giving you nothing but love and sunshine right now. And what do you mean, are you just going to ignore me?”

Her: “I can tell you to leave.”

Me: “Really? Mmmmm also I’m pretty sure you can’t…”

And then she handed me off to a different banker, and as she walked away, she said to herself, “If you’re going to give me attitude I’m definitely not going to help you,” as if her decision to help me AKA do her job would be a favor and up to her discretion.

So I said, “I’m right here, I can hear you. I don’t get it–are we being filmed for an instructional video entitled, ‘Customer Service 101: What Not to Do’?”

And then she completely ignored me.

So I called the 1-800 customer service number to file a complaint, because she had repeatedly referred to herself as that branch’s “Manager,” so I assumed there was no one above her there to complain to. But, it turns out, per the customer service rep on the phone, she’s just the “Assistant Manager.” Can anyone say [a less enjoyable version of] Dwight Schrute?

How to be Broken Up with Gracefully

Being broken up with is not super great. But clearly the person breaking up with us is not right in the head because we’re majestic sphinxes. So we’ll just take our radiance elsewhere, and on our way out, here are some ways we can exit like the graceful swans we are.

Say any of these things:

“That’s ok, I was planning on crying myself to sleep anyways.”

“OK but so who gets the Netflix account?”

“No! Nope–I’m breaking up with you. Consider yourself broken up with.”

“I’m pregnant–or not, whichever scenario makes you more likely to stay.”

“I guess now’s a good time to tell you that your dad fathered an illegitimate child with his secretary. Your brother told me when we slept together.”

“I do not accept.”

“Is it because I ate those 9 fruit roll-ups for breakfast?”

“Oh thank God–consistently shaving my legs was becoming exhausting.”

“Yeah I’d break up with me too if I could.”

Do any of these things:

Literally bow out

Send him an itemized bill of your birth control costs.


Refuse to leave–insist that he leaves, even if you’re at his place.

High-five him

Burn all of his belongings on his front lawn and use the fire to make s’mores.

Take everything that will fit in your arms/pockets.

Put an anonymous call into border patrol telling them they may want to check out the guy you used to bed “because he’s suspiciously brown.”

Don’t break eye contact–even after he’s stopped talking.

Take off your bra, unbutton your pants, and breathe a sigh of relief.

Moonwalk your way out.

Remember to be eco-friendly and use all the tears you’ll cry to water your cactus, the one plant you’ve managed not to kill yet.

Don’t say anything–just laugh maniacally.

Call the DUI hotline and report his license plate #.

Drop the mic.

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