Flop Culture: Mistaken Identity

I recently had the opportunity to walk the proverbial mile in the shoes of a celebrity. The experience shattered my illusions of what it means to be famous. Dreams of swimming in pools of Cristal and snorting cocaine off of strippers' chests became slightly less inviting. Due to a case of mistaken identity, an intoxicated fan at a concert decided I was none other than Mr. Mike Comrie. The Oilers fan, who has a promising future in politics, managed to convince no less than 40 others that I was indeed Comrie and was just being modest, despite my passionate claims to the contrary.

The excitement of being identified as a hockey superstar wore off fast, and soon, requests for my autograph and hugs from shirtless, sweaty jocks began to get on my nerves. The pandemonium came to a terrifying peak when a 300 lb. mass of raging testosterone with bulging veins grabbed the front of my shirt and began to scream “you fucking suck” and “faggot” repeatedly, only inches from my face. While his spit rained upon me, I realized that being a celebrity may not be as wonderful as I once believed. Saved from being pounded by an enraged “fan” by another bouncer, I reflected upon what I knew about my doppelganger. Obviously, he is ridiculously good looking, but in order to prevent this from happening again, I think that he should be forced to grow a beard or shave his head. While enduring chants of my false name from the crowd, I realized that there was only one possible way that Mike Comrie could make up for endangering my life:

If you're reading this Mr. Comrie, I believe that it would only be fair if you would hook me up with Hilary Duff. After all, I was very polite to your fans.