Paradise- Stop And Think (1982)

If you really stop and think about it, "tax time" in April is really just the same as "getting blindly robbed" the other eleven months of the year.

Evelyn "Champagne" King- Smooth Talk (1977)

Although I consider myself an extreme sceptic, you can say just about anything to me in a smooth, baritone Barry White voice, and I'm going to faithfully believe you forever.

Chaka Khan- Fate (1981)

Years ago, I used to go to the roller rink, get myself an off-brand Slurpee from the concession stand, sit on the sidelines. and laugh at the strange pairings during couples skate.
More recently, in my older, softer form, I have decided that if an obese Caucasian woman with a cast on each arm and a tiny Asian man in a Hawaiian shirt want to come together over a mutual love of skate-dancing, then who am I to giggle at fate?

The Jacksons- This Place Hotel (1980)

We didn't ever stay in nice hotels when I was a kid, so I promised myself, as an adult, that it would be four and five stars for the rest of my days.
That being said, I have since learned that the star-rating system is total bullshit.
No, friends, the true barometer of fanciness in a hotel lies in the ice machine.
A couple of years ago, I was on Toronto for a couple of weeks, and stayed at two separate four-star hotels. As someone who greatly enjoys a well-iced drink, my first order of business after checking in is to fill the ice bucket.
When I arrived at the first hotel, I noticed that there was no ice bucket. I called down to the front desk, who promptly sent a handsome bellboy with a silver bucket on a silver tray, filled with the clearest crescents of ice known to man. I called down to the desk several times a day, and no matter what time, or how drunk I was, they would always deliver a shining bucket of shimmering cold crystals with a smile on their face. 
In the second hotel, I lucked out- the ice machine sat directly across from the entrance to my room. A plastic bucket sat on the counter next to the sink. I approached the ice machine with caution, as it sounded like a cement mixer filled with Pop-Rocks. I brushed the dust off of the scoop, and began to chip away at the solid mass of ice inside the machine. I stopped at the first sight of a short, curly hair lodged into the ancient, dingy frost. I'm lucky I didn't find a whole caveman in there. I'm not certain, but there may have been a couple of amorous mice making love somewhere in the back of the machine, too.
I went back to my room, sweaty and defeated. I called down to the front desk, and requested that their bellboy deliver me a bucket of ice. The front desk was hesitant, but a few moments later, I heard the ice machine door across from my room open, and someone picking away at the contents inside. There was a knock at my door, and a surly dude that was a dead ringer the guy on the oatmeal box (if the guy on the oatmeal box had a mild meth habit) handed me a plastic container filled with a single, giant chunk of filthy ice, complete with the lonely pube I had spotted earlier. Oatmeal bellboy stood in the doorway, in some sort of awkward stand-off for a tip, to which I offered, "I think you guys really need to clean your ice machine".