So I woke up with a headache today. It’s not really a nice feeling to wake up with a hangover after spending a night downing glass after glass of Bailey’s until I felt the world spin around me just before passing out. And spending new year’s day with this awesomemifically-painful-sonofabitch-I-want-to-drill-my-brains-out-with-a-pencil headache. Then the inevitable happened: I heard a karaoke rendition of Abba’s “Dancing Queen”, sung by a man with a voice so deep you’d think it was James Earl Jones singing. If that wasn’t bad enough, he was drunk that every other word was unintelligible mumbling. Oh did I mention that he was out of tune?

I tried to go about my morning routine with that guy going through the entire Abba repertoire, patiently pretending to ignore him. But when he started to sing Regine Velasquez, my patience has come to an end. As he hit the high note on “On The Wings of Love” and as an member of my household began to start sobbing uncontrollably, I decided to embark on a grand quest. A quest to save the world from the evils of karaoke.

But of course I can’t go on stopping the evil karaoke machine as Ade Magnaye, because as much as I am immune to bullets and grenades and lasers, my friends and family aren’t. That’s why, in order to protect the people around me, part one of my grand plan to save the world from the evil karaoke would be to adopt a superhero identity.

At day, I shall be Ade, mild-mannered, effeminate blogger extraordinaire, seemingly unable to harm a fly. But at night I shall become:


CYLINDER-HEADED TUXEDO MAN!

As Cylinder-Headed Tuxedo Man, I shall make it my personal mission to protect the ordinary man from the evils and perils of karaoke. I shall invade karaoke bars and destroy those machines that eat at our souls and lay to waste our lives. It’s a lonely mission, I know, but somebody has to do it. Anyway, I have my sidekick to keep me company:

And that takes care of part two of my grand plan: get a totally hot sidekick who may or may not have a penis sometime in the past. Now that I have a superhero identity with a superhero, the next logical step would be for me to gain a superpower. So I’m looking at various ways the other superheroes gained their powers, and none of them looks quite appealing:

  • Be born in a faraway planet called ‘Krypton’ and have your scientist father put you in a rocketship and send you to Earth just before the planet explodes – gee, this would be nice if not for the fact that I was born on earth and my dad is anything but a scientist.
  • Get bitten by a radioactive spider – aside from the fact there’s no way I can irradiate a spider without toasting it to kingdom come, it’s um, eew?
  • Have your parents get shot down in an alley by a mugger, and you go traveling for twenty years for training in various martial arts and to hone detective skills – one word: no.
  • Be born with the X-gene and be a mutant – cool as it sounds, I don’t want to be born with two heads or something.
  • Get bathed in cosmic rays while on an experimental spaceship – Cool! Now where can I get one of those ships?

As you can see, all of the superhero origins that I know of are totally unfeasible. So I decided  to just stick my penis into a bowl of radioactive material (my old socks dipped into a bowl of water). And now I’m given the power to melt, via radioactive radiation, any karaoke machine within a five-mile radius of my penis!

Now that I have a super power, it’s time to develop a modus operandi. I would drive the Cylinder-Tuxedo Mobile around town, with my supersonic ears primed to detect bad karaoke singing within a twenty mile radius. And when I hear a rendition of “Just Once” so awesomifically bad you’d want to commit suicide, I’d put the jet engines of my Cylinder-Tuxedo Mobile into full gear and drive toward the said offending Karaoke bar, and crash my car into the walls of the establishment. And of course, my car is made of adamantium so the debris, falling bricks, explosions, and ricocheting bullets will leave nary a scratch. Kinda like my penis.

At this point I shall emerge from my vehicle with a victorious grin, and I shall proceed in liquefying the offending Magic Sing. And I shall laugh, with a laugh that will make these seasoned karaoke veterans – who have lived through a hundred and one performances of “My Way” – piss their pants. So watch out evilkaraokedoers, I, Cylinder-Headed Tuxedo Man, shall strike fear into your hearts whenever you sing a bad note.

And, that, my dear friends, is my grand plan to save the world from karaoke. Either that or the Bailey’s is still stuck in my head or something.

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