The Time- 777-9311 (1982)

There used to be these parties that I went to every few months. They were in a basement of a Jamaican restaurant, and some of my favorite friends would DJ, and they were always the best time ever. That is, minus the fact that the tiny, hobbit-like bartender had a real thing for me. Now, people often mention a certain "Napoleon complex" that infects many guys of smaller stature, but what they don't often discuss is their aggressive tendencies when they meet a smaller lady. It's like they feel like it's their last chance at love or something.
Like it's genetically meant-to-be.
Point is, this dude was always very feisty when it came to trying to trick me into dating him. One evening, I thought I had evaded him entirely, when out of the shadows he rose, cell-phone in hand. "What's your digits?", he asked me, and I rattled off some fake number. He proceeded to dial it right in front of my face. "Nope", he said, "I know that's not your number". I was in a real bind, so I just gave him the next number I could think of: 777-9311. This time, he didn't even bother dialing. We stared in silence for a moment. "Ah", I said, "I see you are familiar with the works of Morris Day and The Time", and walked away.