It's Friday, we should break up - That guy with the Hitler mustache I met at the bar last night (UPDATED)

(Oh, dear. It's 9/11 and I just now realized. Moment of silence.)

Some (most) of my friends get a real kick out of hanging out with me because I'm not scared to go up and ask anyone anything. And last night was a prime example.

First, I watched my Titans lose in overtime to the damn Steelers. Troy Polamalu? Please stop being so awesome (and on the wrong team) or I will have to lick your face. This is not a joke.

I was sitting on a patio, enjoying a beer and some insanely nice weather when, suddenly, three extras from Robert Palmer's Addicted to Love video (embedding disabled by request, bastards) walked by in the parking lot.



My friend DD was like, "Um...what the hell?"

So we stared awkwardly as they walked across the parking lot. And I do mean awkwardly.

Me: "Do you think they know they're dressed like the chicks from the Robert Palmer video?"

DD: "I don't know..."

Me: "Should I go ask?"

DD: "I will buy your next drink if you do. Please do!"

Shit. I ain't scurred.

I walked over as they were getting in their car.

"Um, hi! Excuse me. I'm sorry. But...are you dressed like the ladies of Robert Palmer on purpose?"

As it turned out they were doing a roller derby photo shoot with a Robert Palmer Addicted to Love theme. YES! I love roller derby. I would be doing it right now if I knew how to skate. Or had time for practice. Because I? Look good in some fishnets.

With that mystery solved, DD and I proceeded to do some karaoke. Yes, we're that lame. And we love to be that lame. Shut it.

Sometime in the middle, our bar - our awesome, laid back, not full of douchebags bar - flooded with what appeared to be preppy, yuppy Greeks (You understand here that I mean fraternities and sororities, not people from actual Greece. That would have actually been kind of cool.) from our local private university (we assume, because we're assumers).

Me: "Uh, what are all these pretty people doing in our bar?"

DD: "One of them is walking around with a Hitler mustache."

Me: "NO! Why? I'm going to go find him."

DD: "YES!"

I started searching through the crowd to find this mustached man. It took me more than a little while because he was about five-feet tall, but all his friends were of at least average height. Finally, the only guy I hadn't checked was the tiny one. He had his back to me, so I tapped him on the shoulder.

Me: "Eureka! Uh, what's the deal with your mustache? Please tell me that's an Inglorious Basterds thing (You STILL haven't seen it? Go see it!) and not a Hitler thing."

(In case you live under a rock and somehow don't know what Hitler's mustache looked like...)


Him: "It's not a Hitler thing. I don't want to be like Hitler. Or Obama...since they're basically the same person." (This was said with a great amount of disgust.)

Me: "Turn back around before I punch you in the vagina."

Cue walking away.

Uh, really, dude? Obama is just like HITLER? That doesn't even make sense. Does it? Someone explain it to me. I'm just not smart enough to figure it out.

My awesome friend Joanna posted a link to this in the comments, but I know no one else will likely bother to paste it into their browser to see it. So here it is.