Karaoke. If there is any better proof that the human race is inherently ridiculous, I would like to hear it (and see it) blasted from a 3-foot speaker system and displayed on a projected TV screen with background images of poppy fields.

Before the complaints start rolling in, I should say first off that I am well aware that karaoke is a Japanese word, and was invented in Japan.

According to my trusty friend Wikipedia, (which this time I had to access through a proxy server because of The Great Firewall of China), karaoke was invented by the Japanese singer Daisuke Inoue in the early 1970s. Looking for a way for his adoring fans to more easily sing along to his brand of disco fusion (trust me, it’s not pretty), Daisuke affixed a cassette tape to a TV set. He named his invention “karaoke,” from the Japanese words for “empty,” or “void” and the English word, “orchestra”. I find the first part of this derivation to be particularly apt.

Unfortunately, the man did not patent his invention, and thus missed out on the opportunity to make billions of dollars from our misery. Today, the fruits of his labor have blossomed into an over $10 billion-dollar-a-year business, with entire buildings dedicated to “karaoke boxes,” or rooms with a TV screen and attached microphones that you can rent out by the hour.

This business is alive and well in China. Here, it is known affectionately as KTV, or “Ka la OK,” the first two words being characters and the “OK” bit being from the Western alphabet. Interestingly enough, while “ka la” is surely a transliteration from the Japanese, one can only but wonder about the inclusion of “la,” whose character can mean to pull, or in the case of “la duzi,” (duzi means stomach) to have loose bowels.

As in Japan, these KTV parlors have become a popular destination for teenagers and businessmen alike, with in-the-room activities running the gamut from enjoying the latest pop song to sealing a business deal. It is fairly common to go “KTV” (yes, it is used as a verb here) right after a large banquet. It is also common to have a kind of street side KTV, in the form of a competition to see who can irritate the judges least.

Since I have arrived in China, I have unwittingly found myself singing karaoke numerous times, and thus feel prepared to offer a walkthrough of a typical KTV experience:

You enter a large building, with more stories than you feel is appropriate for a venue of this nature. Well-dressed waiters and/or waitresses take your coat, and provide bags for any umbrellas you might own. You take a crowded elevator up four or five flights, and along the way, get a preview of the singing voices of your fellow elevator patrons. “Not bad!” you mentally exclaim. As you exit, you note that the hallways smell like a sort of sweet vanilla coffee. Where they get this scent remains a mystery, as they do not serve coffee at most KTV places.

Walking down the hallways, you will inevitably encounter the problem of The Open Door — the floors have been packed as tightly as possible with private rooms, and occasionally, you will be forcibly exposed to the singing prowess of the other guests of this establishment. Needless to say, everyone in China has a wonderful, beautiful singing voice, so this is never a problem.

You arrive in your room to find a large leather couch, as well as a projector screen, with up to five microphones on the table. Along the sides of the room, the waiters have placed various elements of the typical rhythm section. An assortment of hand tambourines, triangles and even maracas make your personal band complete!

There is a sudden rush to choose songs, and your hosts are always quick to choose American songs that they have heard of, so you can sing along as well. This inevitably boils down to the Billboard top 50 hit singles from 1997, interspersed with the Beatles, and, oddly, the particularly unkaraoke-able Linkin Park.

As the machine fires up, you begin to understand the true purpose of the picture portion of karaoke. This is not to inform you of the words of the songs, but to provide ridiculous and unnecessary off-topic visual accompaniment.

Singing “I wanna see you out that door, baby bye bye bye” with the visual supplement of a crying child in the middle of what you can only assume is the Alaskan wilderness, you begin to see the absurdity.

After massacring roughly 20 songs, you are ready to go home. It has been four hours, yet the crowd around you shows no signs of weakness. They are still going strong, singing the latest Chinese pop-rap jingle in a high falsetto. You begin to put on your coat, but something is holding you back — one of your fellow room-mates is poking you with the small end of a maraca, and encouraging you to shake it in time to a Britney Spears song.

There is no way out, you think, and surrender to the madness. The next time you look at the clock, it is 4 a.m. No one is asleep. The bionic children around you are still beating the tambourine and their voices are still cracking. It is nine o’clock in the morning when you finally step out, and take the walk of shame back to your apartment.

I should note that it is not all bad. KTV is a lot of fun, the whole singing songs from a TV thing aside. You really do get to know people better, and see a side of them you have not seen before. Additionally, KTV is undeniably a national Chinese pastime, even if it did come from Japan.

Still, there is no denying it: Karaoke is one of the oddest multibillion dollar franchises in the world.