One time, long ago, my family took my mum out for a birthday dinner. Nice little restaurant, not five star, but somewhat classy. C'mon, it's Dumfries...
Anyway, they decided for a change to have some asshole there singing to everyone, the Ol American Songbook shit that Rod Stewart milked in the late 90's. Well, this motherfucker starts singing to tables, totally disrupting everyone's dinner. I'm cringing while Steve, my older brother, is rubbing his hands, waiting for this scuuummmmmbbbbaaagggg to hit our table. And sure enough he does - my mother is getting red with embarrassment, because Steve tells the fuckhead it's her birthday, and he proceeds to serenade AN ENTIRE SONG to her.
I'm fighting laughter. Steve IS laughing. My father is shaking his head. And my mum is covering her face the whole time, wanting to die.
That leather-skinned wanna be lounger is what Joe is: a never-was with delusions of grandeur to get him through the Day, chewing out the barkeep when his comped beer isn't in his hands soon enough, and making everything about HIMSELF, not thinking about those he's supposed to entertain.
Shit, even that guy walked like a pedophile, too.