So there's this guy. I see him every few weeks or so when I'm out and about. He's always jogging (badly) and singing (loudly, and to a degree of awfulness that makes him look as graceful as a gazelle by comparison). He sings along to music playing through his headphones, so I wonder if he has no idea how truly, desperately awful his voice is, or if he simply doesn't care.
The first time I encountered this anti-"American Idol," it was a lovely, sunny spring day in Myrtle Edwards Park. It took me a moment to recognize the song that he was so thoroughly slaughtering. Then, much to my horror, I realized that the victim of this crime-against-music was my much beloved U2...for this dark chanteur was warbling "Sunday, Bloody Sunday" ("...how long, how long must we sing this song...").
If that was my most horrifying encounter with this entleman. The funniest was one evening months later. I was walking Doofus, and in the distance I saw someone jogging. Then, BAM, the unidentified figure was down on the ground, rolling like a ball (or a sow bug). Then, BAM, the figure was up, jogging again. Then the figure drew closer...and I heard the (bad) singing. Oh, mirth and merriment!
The only reason I thought of this odd soul today, when I haven't seen him for weeks, was that I was out on a lunchtime walkabout when I found a match made in musical heaven (OK, hell) for Mr. Songbird. She was standing on a streetcorner on Pine Street, headphones firmly on, singing with a voice so purely awful that it should never, ever be allowed outside her shower. Maybe I should start MoodyBabe's Dating Service for Musical Misfits?