I lost.

Badly.

It wasn't even close. I not only lost to all the "cheaters" in the karaoke contest, I was fourth place out of the non-cheating, low-vote-getting losers. That's like not even being allowed to ride on the short bus.

Sad, sad, sad.

I decided over the weekend that I would rise above all the petty squabbling of last week and hang my head high, knowing that I did my best and that it didn't matter what public opinion says — I know in my heart that I gave sweet, delicious karaoke stylings and that's all that matters.

But then, later in the weekend, I thought, "Fuck that."

I want to be petty.

So, basically, it sucks. I'm mad and upset and I will never forgive anyone who dared beat me or vote against me in this contest. It should have been mine. All weekend, I broke stuff in my house. I kicked the cat around a few times. I prank called people in the karaoke contest:

 

 

Frankly, I blame all of you for not voting. First Al Gore, now this. Aren't you people ashamed of yourselves?

I was so sad over the weekend, that I decided to express myself in the only way I know how. Through interpretative dance.

After that, I decided to toss off a poem, too.

 

WHY THE BASTARDS WON INSTEAD OF ME

A Poem. By Omar

 

I thought in my heart my karaoke was tight,
But I've learned through the vote it was corny and slight.

I practiced for days, I sang it all night,
For the chance of great glory, which I thought was my right.

Allison, Pamie, some guy goes by Fred,
They taunted and teased, they scratched wounds till they bled.

But now it's all over, I've been so greatly wronged,
I feel raw and bent over, all Allison-schlonged.

I blame all you bastards, you foolish ignobles,
Who ignored cries of "Vote!" yet kept reading my foibles.

You're bad, evil people. You hurt me like daggers,
You packed up my shame like mean grocery baggers.

And now it has passed, has the hurt gone away?
Hell no, beeyatches, I cry every day.

So next time you enter, try to win something nice,
I'll pray locusts on you, I'll wish you head lice.

In my lost darkest hour, in a time of great need,
You voted for those who inspired such greed.

And now here I sit, with my tasty "Ike" song,
Folks, you must know, this is nothing but wrong.

 

Not that I'm bitter.

 

---

 

For those you of you who asked about my Mom's health over the weekend, thanks. She's doing a lot better. On Saturday, I went home and presented her a birthday gift — a personal spa. It's basically a bath mat with a little motor and it makes heated bubbles. It also has a floating remote controller. Even better: It has cool little spiked footrests that you can rub your footsies on. Quite the luxury item.

I'm relaxed just looking at this.

I always have a horrible time shopping for Mom because ... well, I don't know why. I think Moms in general are tough to buy gifts for. I mean, this is the person who birthed you — who went into labor to bring your slimy little ass into the world. How does a bouquet of flowers, even nice ones, come close to repaying that?

The best compliment I got on the gift, though, was my Mom saying that she had seen the little personal spa in a circular and had been wanting to buy it. Any gift that somebody was about to go plunk some cash for is typically a well-timed gift.

My grandparents were in town, too, and the whole spa thing turned into a funny discussion of an incident I don't remember.

When I was 11, the story goes, and we were living in Mississippi, my parents decided to have a relaxing and romantic evening.

The made sure my little brother, who was maybe a year old, was safe. They made sure I was asleep. Then they drew up some bubbles and got their bathtub groove on.

So there they are, I guess immersed in bubble bath together with candles and such (they're my parents, ya'll. Let's not get too visual here), and whispering to each other about whether they were going to wake the kids up and whether we could hear them.

At some point, I guess when they were tired of being all cramped and wrinkly in the tub, they were going to get out. But, uh oh, there were no towels.

My mom whispered to my dad, "We don't have any towels!"

And my little 11-year-old ass yells from outside the door, "I'll get them!"