Having a personal back-up singer will totally change your life

Like all non-monetary items you win in a late-night no-stakes poker game, I was skeptical at first. Wouldn’t you be if someone came over the top and re-raised with five-time Grammy award winner Michael McDonald? WTF, right? I mean, sure, I’ve won some strange things like wedding rings and the jock strap worn by Michael Jordan during his short-lived baseball career. But when it comes to a washed up singer songwriter who hasn’t been culturally relevant since the early 1990s, well, wouldn’t you be skeptical too?

Now you’re probably wondering why I didn’t muck the hand. I’ll tell you why. Because I wasn’t going to back down to one of Donny Packwood’s horseshit bluffs. And because I had a plan. So I called–and won.

As the proud new owner of Michael McDonald my first act of business was to use his booming baritone to remind Packwood of his recent lose. Even though I’m aware that there was no lyrical relevance to the situation, hearing McDonald sing “What A Fool Believes” all up in his face was, in the words of Mastercard, priceless.

The joy of owning McDonald quickly faded when his “celebrity” couldn’t me out of a DUI charge. (What good is a celebrity who isn’t above the law?) As if that failure wasn’t enough, upon returning home I stepped out of the bathroom to find him watching TV, in the nude – though it should be noted at first sight, I thought he was wearing a sweater. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning while belting out “My Way” in the shower, all my concerns faded away when I heard him accompanying me from the toilet. That’s when I hatched my next plan. Wherever I went, he would follow while singing backup. He had been a backup singer before, so he was cool with it. Plus, he hadn’t performed in front of an audience for a while so it was a chance to get back in the limelight. If you consider the harsh fluorescent lights of my office and the dingy glow of my local watering hole to be limelight. Regardless, I could now get away with saying all kinds of random, senseless shit because ole McD was going to follow it up with those smooth chops of his. So when I called our receptionist a ‘MILF’, she blushed instead of scowling at me like all the other times I’ve called her that. When my boss asked what I thought of a presentation he was about to give and I told him it was, ‘a giant festering turd’, he promoted me. You see where this is going.

As good as life was at work, my personal life was even better. Those classic pickup lines that used to result in a drink being thrown in my face now ended up as a threesome. I was even getting freebies at Burger King. Plus, we had worked out a deal where M-Dog (his new nickname) would play “Piano Man” a few times a night at select bars in exchange for free drinks. All in all, he was turning out to be quite the wingman/bro.

Until the karaoke incident. This S.O.B., who will happily provide backing vocals during a bowel movement, flat out refused to perform “Afternoon Delight”. Said it was beneath him. When I reminded him he would be performing in front of an audience, he mumbled something about a sound check then stormed off.

I got a call from Packwood the next day saying he found McDonald passed out naked on his couch. When I got there, he was bucket of tears and totally apologetic. Apparently that song triggers acid flashbacks from his Doobie Brothers days. After that we quickly made up and before Packwood could hand him his pants, the M-Dog was all up in his face singing “What A Fool Believes”.

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