Wondering How to Pronounce Fuci-Fino? Fuck If We Know.

T&A: Shortly after a conversation with Joseph, the NIN-shirt-wearing Scaryoke visionary who told me that his ultimate hope was to make Wednesday night Scaryoke a universal affair (talk about a far-reaching vision!), I was introduced to Johnny. Johnny was down-to-Earth, with a white beard and sturdy build. He'd been hiding out in the back until now, and while he eyed the crowd with a look of fatherly love, he kept his distance.

"Rednecks, gays, goth kids," Johnny said. "We'll let anyone in here, as long as they don't cause any trouble."

Jason Crosby

Details

Johnny's Fuci-Fino's Sports Bar and Grill 2500 W. Oakland Park Blvd., Oakland Park. Call 954-733-1985, or visit fuci-finos.com

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"How do you pronounce the name of this place?" I asked.

Johnny paused. "Fyoosi-feeno's," he said.

"That's not what I've heard," I said.

Sean laughed from the bar. "It's pronounced 'Fuck if I know.' " 

"OK, that's the official pronunciation," Johnny said. "But you can't say that to just anyone."

"Yeah, like if you get pulled over and when the cop asks where you've been and you tell him, 'Fuck if I know,' " said Sean.

"So what's with all the dangling bras?" I asked Johnny.

"Oh, that's from a long time ago. A woman didn't want to pay for another drink and asked if she could trade me her bra for a drink," Johnny said. "So I did. And same with the panties on the wall." Now that's bartering.

"In fact," Johnny continued, leading me to the far wall, by the restrooms. He pointed to a large frame full of six-by-nine-inch photos — most of them women with their tits and/or asses hanging out. The women were on the "matriarchs gone wild" side of things but overall made up a fine collection of MILFs, GMILFs, and the kind of bored party girls who will drop a thong at the drop of a hat.

"This whole wall used to be filled with pictures," Johnny said, gesturing to a long, empty wall. "But people kept stealing them." Apparently these were the ones either no one wanted to steal or no one had stolen yet.

On that happy note, I decided it was time to make a graceful stumbling, swaying exit. All in all, a productive evening: I'd had a few drinks, witnessed karaoke at its blackest black, times infinity, and also managed to not make an ass of myself on stage or show my ass to a camera. And to be perfectly frank: After Scaryoke, I was gonna be sure to invest in a few more black shirts.