mad hot

So last night I went to me local club to attend 80’s night, the hottest game in town on Thursday nights. I went with some friends, including my friend Amanda. Now, Amanda is my friend’s girlfriend (hi Matt!), and she is very hot, and I say that objectively. It’s kind of weird dancing with her, because everyone kind of looks at me like: "What the hell is she doing with you?" One dude actually came up to us, checker her out, and said "Dude, you got it going on right there." I said "thanks," but I think I should have said, "Go fuck your mother." Oh well.
I ran into a coworker and had this exchange:
Coworker: Hey, I work with you, right?
Me: Oh, yeah, hey, Dmitri.
Coworker: Yeah, I’m Rene!
Me: Fuck.
He didn’t even hear me. Why do people bother to talk in bars? Anyway, this one girl really thought Amanda was hot; she came up to her on the dance floor and screamed at her: "Oh my God, you’re so hot!" and made Amanda dance with her. At the end of the night when we were leaving we ran into this girl on the street.
Girl: (To Amanda) Oh my God, it’s you! You’re so hot!
Amanda: Thanks.
Girl: No! You are so hot!
Amanda: Uh... Thanks.
Girl: No! I love you! You’re hot!
Amanda: Okay.
Girl: No! I love you! I want to be you!
Me: Now, wait a minute. What’s wrong with the way you look? You’re very pretty.
Girl: (bitterly) No I’m not. I mean (points to Amanda) she’s hot. (points to my friend, Ron) He’s hot. (points to me) You…(pause) You look like Sam Roberts (a popular Canadian rock musician).
Me: Oh. Well you’re still pretty.
Girl: No, I’m not. I mean look at me! I’m just not hot.
Me: I’m saying you are.
Girl: (indicates her own body) Well, this maybe.
Me: No, you have a very pretty face.
Girl: No, I don’t.
Me: I’m serious, I think you’re mad-hot.
Girl: (disdainfully) Yeah, but you’re Sam Roberts!
Me: Ouch.
My friends: Who’s Sam Roberts? (I guess he’s not that popular.)
Me: Ehhh, he’s some shitty rock musician.
Girl: Oh yeah? What kind of music do you listen to?
Me: Hardcore gangsta hiphop.
Girl: Seriously?
Me: No, I’m joking.
Girl: (becoming agitated) What do you really listen to?
Me: Uh… indie rock, I guess.
Girl: Okay, have you heard Death From Above?
Me: No.
Girl: You have to listen to Death From Above.
Me: Okay.
Girl: No! You have to listen to them!
Me: I will!
Girl: (shaking me) You have to!
Me: Okay, you see that music store? In the morning when they open I will go and listen to Death from Above.
Girl: You have to listen to Death From Above!
Me: Jesus! I’m telling you I will!
Girl: Okay. (walks off and goes back into bar)
Me: Wait! I forgot to tell you that I love you!
Okay, I didn’t actually say that. But don’t you love crazy drunk girls? She was kind of cute, and something about crazy girls gets me in the longshanks and the skittles, if you twig my meaning. I didn’t actually go to that music store this morning, but you know what? Next time I go I am definitely checking out Death From Above. If there’s one thing crazy drunk chicks know, it’s music.
This is, like, the third time someone has compared me to a musician upon meeting me. Some girls I know (girl H and girl P, in fact) still call me Eric Clapton, and once a dude on the bus called me John Lennon. Now I get this dude. Obviously I am rock-and-fucking-roll.