"She's Canadian and we play her song anyway."
[final chord, mild applause]
"Thank you....Thanks, y'all."
[overenthusiastic woman and friend dancing in front of seated patrons stumble toward the stage]
"Can I sing with you?"
(overlapping) "Can she please sing along? She's good."
"I sweartagod I'm good. Seriously. It's my birthday. I'm double curvy."
Our heroines weigh their options:
1. We let Boozy Marmalade sing her birthday tune or
2. We watch her gnat around our microphones until we get violent (resulting in a trip to the emergency room and lawyers office, suing to cover the hospital bills and her emotional damage).
Boozy chooses a Joplin jam. She sings and surfs an imaginary board with her eyes closed. Luckily, "Me and Bobby McGee" has built-in slurring. In fact, Boozy sings pretty ok. Until the second verse when all the words are just a step ahead of her brain. And the next chorus. And the "Nanndnanananananaa--"
Boozy demands applause. "MORE! IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!"
Eyes roll out of heads and onto the floor.
The bar empties.
She, she, she oughta know.
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