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Commentary: Despite how bad you are, no shame in singing in your car

Courtesy of MCT

We all do it. I am not alone. There’s no shame in admitting that you do it too. Why, I just did it after work … and enjoyed every second of it.

I mean singing in my car.

“Singing” really isn’t the best word to classify what is it I like to do on my drives home. It’s probably more along the lines of “screeching so loudly that nails on a chalkboard sound like elevator music.” But I don’t know that.

I don’t know that because my car refuses to let me down with the truth. Who knew cars were so moral?

What makes the car the perfect vessel to sing in is the close, private, personal quarters in which you are baring your soul to your windshield. The sound waves come roaring out of your mouth and are absorbed through the cloth in the ceiling so the car isn’t returning that sound back to you. You really don’t know how bad you sound.

Which is perfect for off-key, tone-deficient singers like myself.

This allows me to get a bit carried away sometimes. Popping in a mix CD, I suddenly become Madonna, performing for the masses and pretending I’m wearing seductive clothing rather than my McDonald’s uniform.

I become so enveloped in my own mind that I transform into a world-class performer, able to sing along with the best of them. I can wail with Lady Gaga, scream with Underoath and shatter glass with the “Phantom of the Opera” soundtrack.

Little did I know that the shattering glass is actually my driver’s side window, being smashed in by a rock thrown by the people in the car next to mine. It’s too bad. I really thought I could shatter glass there for a second.

Yep, those people heard me. Probably saw me, too, though the flailing arms and the lack of the faithful 10-and-two hand position on the steering wheel was a dead giveaway.

Good thing for me I’ll never see them again. Score one for Madon- I mean, me.

Now it’s time to travel back to my childhood with the Disney mix CD.

One of the best things about singing in the car is not being persecuted for forgetting the words. Or, in my case, making them up.

As the African chants of “The Lion King’s” “Circle of Life” come roaring out of the speakers, I can’t help but to sing along.

“Waaah she betcha, she’s on a shish kabob.

“In the bottle, swimming at the bottom.

“In the garden, swinging on the swing set.”

I don’t know why she’s on a shish kebab, or why there’s a swing set in the middle of Africa, but it’s my car, so I don’t ask questions.

After pretending to be funny, I pop in some Eminem. Now I’m angry.

I transform into a rapper and start spewing rhymes about my mommy issues and my ability to triumph over adversity.

Suddenly, I’m on stage in front of thousands performing with Lil Wayne on the smash hit of the summer. I just about reach the bridge when …

I miss my house.

Great.

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