I suppose you could bring up the whole Nature/Nurture debate: how much of my self-inflicted cock inferno could be attributed to genetic predisposition, and how much to the deadly influence of television? My thinking is, if this sort of thing could really be blamed on society, the human race would have ended in 1978 with the release of Superman, since we all would've dove off skyscrapers with red towels draped off our shoulders. The simple fact that most of the populace is able to watch Jackass without even the slightest inclination to strap a crocodile to one's face and ride a flaming shopping cart into traffic tells me the people who are so inclined have probably been fighting an uphill battle with common sense since birth. Someone willing to ignore every instinct of self preservation and jump onto a lit barbecue because some tattoo'd mongoloid named "Steve-O" did same probably isn't anyone who's getting a lot of help from stricter television censorship. Get rid of all televised violence tonight and you'll still find a corpse in the morning; body limp and head hanging out of the TV after they tried to eat the bowl of Lucky Charms.

In other words, despite our best efforts to reward idiots with money and documentaries, Nature has a built-in preference for non-dumbasses; namely, that we are able to breed slightly easier than we are able to light ourselves on fire. Where hereditary traits get interesting are with the non-essential ones. Not every trait getting passed along is crucial to our survival in contemporary society; some, it would seem, are just along for the ride.

Traits that might have once meant the difference between life and death--20/20 vision, the ability to run extremely fast, dexterity--aren't crucial to living in a country where hunting your next meal is as easy as buying a box of Wheat Thins at a supermarket. Similarly, traits that might once have bumped you off the food chain--color blindness, near-sightedness, clumsiness--now hardly matter, thanks to the compensation of modern science. Sandwiched somewhere in between your "don't walk into traffic" genes are traits you haven't even figured out you have yet--undiscovered gifts and dormant curses.

One such trait I have is something called perfect pitch; and, like most quirky traits, the novelty of learning you have it is quickly mitigated by how incredibly goddamn useless it is. Having perfect pitch means that I'm able to recognize a note instantly, without hearing another. It sounds pretty kick-ass, until you realize that it isn't something that tends to come in handy often ("Sure I'll have hot sex with you, Jay, but first: is this a C# or a D?"). Most gifted composers didn't have perfect pitch; disappointingly, being able to correctly identify notes doesn't necessarily lead to being able to put them in an order that creates the next Ode to Joy. If creating music were the ability to fix a car, my gift relative to that would be standing around watching you fix the car and saying "Now you're using a Phillips-head screwdriver. Now you're using a 9/16th socket wrench. Now you're throwing it at me."

Also, unlike the name would suggest, perfect pitch isn't actually a you-either-have-it-or-don't proposition; you can be eerily good at it, or only partially inclined towards it, or barely have it at all. Lack of use has atrophied my skill somewhat over the years, so the only real applicable benefit is that I've managed to save $20 on a guitar tuner. As for detriments, though, there are plenty.

The opposite of having perfect pitch is being tone deaf, or unable to distinguish pitch at all. I don't know why it is that tone deaf people hate perfect pitch people so much--all I know is they got together at some point with violence in their hearts, did research as to the fastest way to bring us misery, and soon after invented karaoke.

Karaoke is a Japanese term: "kara" comes from "karappo" meaning "to inflict unspeakable horror", and "oke" is the abbreviation of "okesutura," meaning "through song". And despite assurances I'm given at bars, I refuse to believe the people who sing karaoke aren't attempting to destroy me on purpose. According to the friends I drink with, karaoke singers lead their lives in blissful ignorance of the flat and sharp notes that escape shrieking from their mouths like feral animals clawing their way up chalkboards. I don't buy it for a second. Their song choices alone are proof of malice.

I try to avoid karaoke like I would people who smell like urine--cautiously, with cat-like speed--but every so often I'll visit a bar that hasn't done enough to warn unsuspecting patrons that every Thursday is "A Tonal Landscape in Hell" Night. I'll be joking with friends and sipping a beer, or in a quiet corner with a good book (sipping a beer), when suddenly my head will snap upwards with dawning awareness as I pay closer attention to what I assumed was the radio. Why is James Hetfield breathing heavily while singing 'Enter Sandman'? I'll think. And why does he sound like Fred Schneider from the B-52s?

"Ent-er night! It's as big as a light, and it's ah-bout to take! My HANNNND!"

And that's when I'll know. They've trapped me again. They'd heard about the perfect pitch guy. Waited until I ordered a pint. Waited longer still, anxiously watching for the first signs of pleasant enjoyment. And then they strike.

Fred Schneider's drunk friend soon stumbles up on stage to help Fred kill off the bridge, emitting a series of rib-shaking grunts that, in any other place, would alert you that someone close by had just attempted to use a lawnmower to shave a Kodiak bear. It turns out that an entire office party has rented out the back room for the sole purpose of inflicting horror on everybody they don't work with.

Office party karaoke is the worst form of karaoke there is. With open mic karaoke, the only people who take the stage are amateur singers with delusions of talent, amplified and made brave through liquor. The screeching harpy who stumbles her way through Whitney Houston's 'I Will Always Love You' is still committing hate crime of the highest order, of course--but more for her hubris than lack of ability. Whitney Houston is one of the richest women on the planet, and is so soley based of the strength of her voice, which is rich and sonorous enough that we as a society laud her with valuables in the hope that she'll continue. Stacey Richards works in the Accounts Receivable department for Nabisco's Toronto branch office, is drunk off her ass in a sports bar, and has for obvious reasons received no compensation for her singing to date. Whether or not her claim to always love me is true is irrelevant; the feeling doesn't go both ways, and in my head I am always throwing empty pint glasses at her Coors-filled skull.

Amateur karaoke singers are awful, but really only when contrasted against the superior abilities of the original vocalist. But office party karaoke? Jesus. Here's a group of people under no illusions about their abilities, thrust on stage in front of a microphone simply because everyone from the office has to embarrass themselves equally. If you ever find yourself in a bar and realize this is happening, run. Don't look back, don't even stop to grab your jacket off the back of your chair. Just go, man.

Fred Schneider and Kodiak leave the stage to riotous applause as the last strains of 'Enter Sandman' die off on the loudspeakers. Up next is a pale albino man whose every body language is assuring me he's about to not enjoy this as thoroughly as I am. He chooses 'Once in a Lifetime' by the Talking Heads, the duties of which involve posing a lot of moral questions about whether or not this is his beautiful house, and not much in the singing department. He's smart, this one.

I'm downing my beer as furiously as possible and alerting my waitress that I either need a bill or am about to throw my wallet at her when the worst comes to pass. An enormous woman grips the microphone like a ham, takes an audible deep breath, and--without once in six minutes singing an un-flat note--barrels into 'Killing Me Softly With His Song.'

With the exception of the word 'softly', the song's title is a pretty accurate description of the situation. This woman is the worst karaoke "type" of any of them: the bad singer who hears the voice of an angel when she sings. The singer who's not off drastically in pitch with her singing, but just a little, always just a little off.

Anyone with good pitch can tell you is ten times worse than being off by a mile. Not being even fucking close to the right key is forgivable, since the result isn't even music so much as a babble of noise coming out of your mouth. But being just a little off is like a mosquito that keeps buzzing around your ear while you're trying to sleep; it's like trying to enjoy a sandwich and constantly smelling mayonnaise that might be just a little off. From a musical perspective, it is probably one of the more painful things you're ever going to hear, and is concrete proof that the Japanese have perfected their methods of torture to an exact science.

I quickly pay the bill and launch myself out the door, where the sounds of honking cars and shrieking homeless men cascade through my eardrums like soothing balm. On my walk home I invent Jayoke--the fun bar activity wherein songs are played by trained professionals while everyone else sits quietly and enjoys them--and wonder what I have to do to get it to take the world by storm.