The Bar of Antibacterial Soap

This whole thing started with a needle pulling thread. Then a sea-monkey followed it into the bar, along with a priest, rabbi, and hooker, a bowl of Rice Krispies, and Jabba the Hutt.

Of course, if I hadn't spent the last few days in a drunken, pun-filled haze, I might have realized a penguin was supposed to be the next one in. Alas, I was asleep at my post and allowed a disease to slip in first.

Today's suggestion comes courtesy of Joelle:

Tuberculosis walks into a bar... somehow.¹ The bartender, who'd watched it drive up, stops it in the doorway.
"That's one sick ride you flew in on, but you're not welcome here. Leave."
"Chill, man. Such virulence. Is it the fatigues?"
"No. And as much as it pains me to turn away a customer..."
"I have an infectious personality if you get to know me. Give me a shot."
"No. Now go."
"You can't treat me like this."
"It's my bar, I can do what I want."
"Look, all I want is a drink. I'm on my way to see D.C."
"WHO?"
"Not who. The city. Quit being so resistant."
"No."
"C'mon, you're killing me. Cough it up. What's the real reason you're so sore?"
"Get out."
"Bloody hell, I've had it with your bellyaching. A pox on thee!"
"Whatever." The bartender points to the door.
"Oh yeah, don't strain yourself or nothing." It looks back before leaving. "Sir, this decision shall plague you the rest of your days. I'll make sure of it."
"Whatever."

Okay, now that I've gotten tuberculosis out of my system, I'll be able to tackle the penguin next. (And Shakespeare, thanks to my wife's meddling. It's a two-fer.)


¹ I'm assuming prosthetics.

In a Galaxy Bar, Far Away

The bar was closed Saturday for renovations (hallway and dining room floors) and Sunday for private functions (my first Father's Day and first improv performance). But we've opened the doors once again to new customers.

It all began with a needle pulling thread. Then a sea-monkey entered the conversation, followed by a priest, a rabbi, and a hooker and a bowl of Rice Krispies.

Today's suggestion comes courtesy of Alex J. Cavanaugh:

Jabba the Hutt walks into a bar.¹ The place is a pit, and the girls slaving over the tables would rather work elsewhere, perhaps in chains. But it's got cheap drinks and is the only spot from which he can see three P.O. boxes he needs to watch.²

Three of the girls are commiserating by the bar. "And Miss Fancy-Pants there in the corner booth? Says her food was chewy. You believe that princess lay a dime down right in front of me, as my tip?"

"She can't treat you that way just because her husband is a count, duke, or whatever. You need to maul her. Go all qui-gon jinn on her ass."

"It's called taekwondo, Tina. But no, I don't have the energy. I think it's this Atkins diet. After work today I'm gonna do, just in case, a carbo-night."

"Well, then do your psycho routine. Scare her into giving a larger tip."

"Yeah, Mary, you should be a psycho. Oh, be one, 'kay?"

"No, be one yourself."

The bartender tapped Mary on the shoulder. "Waiting to order Jabba is."

"Can Tina do it?"

"Too many tables already she has. For you this is."

"Fine." Mary walks over to Jabba's table. "What'll you have?"

"Bonobo hobo moba cheeso."

"Sorry, what was that?"

The Russian from the next table leans over. "He say he feel sluggish, vant pick-me-up. Like Skyy Wodka in one Solo^® cup."

She returns to the bar and gives the bartender the order.

"Okay, I'll get that for him. Don't get too close when you give it to him, though; use the forceps. Oh, and before you head back over there..." He hands her a small glass. "...serve Greedo's shot first."

And if you thought today's was bad, watch out! Tomorrow's special is tuberculosis.


¹ You might think he would slither, but no... ewok.
² Technically, he could also watch from the Admiral Ack Bar next door, but he won't set foot in there again (figuratively speaking) because, as he says, "Itsa crap!"

The Rice Krispie Bar

It started with a needle pulling thread. Then a sea-monkey entered the conversation, followed by a priest, a rabbi, and a hooker.

Today's suggestion comes courtesy of Laura Hughes:

A bowl of Rice Krispies walks into a bar. She says to the bartender, "Cheerio!"

"Oh, Honey, not 'Cheerio.' You're toasted. Whenever you hit the white stuff, your bran turns to mush."

"I wish I were so lucky, Sam. Everyone knows I'm branless."

"I'm just saying you should be careful. It might feel good at first, but snap! Crack'll pop you in the head every time."

"Please, I'd never do crack."

"Marshmallow?"

"Now that'd be a treat. Anyway, I'll take two cans, Sam."

"Nope, no more. You have a problem."

"I'm fine, you silly rabbit. I'm only back so soon because I accidentally dropped the top to my last can. I stepped on the cap, 'n crunch!"

"No more. Here's what you should do, Honey: Comb your hair and get yourself a job."

Honey smacks the bar. "Quit toying with me. I said I'm fine. Now gimme some sugar. I can't bear to go on like this."

The bartender sighs. "Look, how long are we going to milk this joke? These puns are poor."

"Nonsense. They're gr-r-reat!"

Since this exercise has become a serial, more things will be slithering their way up to the bar. Next up: Jabba the Hutt. (And if you haven't done so yet, you can still make your own suggestion here.)

At the Bar Mitzvah

It began with a needle pulling thread. Yesterday, a sea-monkey entered the conversation. And if you thought those were bad, you ain't read nothing yet.

Today's suggestion comes from my friend Brian, via Facebook:

A priest, a rabbi, and a hooker walk into a bar. The priest orders a virgin Bloody Mary, then joins the others at a booth. He finds the rabbi with a Hooker to his lips; the hooker is enjoying her first He'Brew.

"I must confess," he says, "This is highly unorthodox."

"You see, Jason," says the hooker, "I have this spiritual hole I need to fill. I figured you two could guide me, you know, biblically speaking. And rather than screw around, I thought I'd have you both at once."

The priest eyed his competition. "Well, Norah, if you come with me you might end up in a missionary position."

"Jesus Christ!" says the rabbi. "Quit pimping your religion. She's just looking for spiritual guidance."

"No need to be cross. It was just a proposition."

"Don't crucify me, I'm trying to help. Now, the Torah is kept in this thing called—"

"Hell no, not another one of your ark tangents. Like you said, David, she wants spiritual guidance."

The hooker bangs on the table. "Look," she says. "Stop whining about spirits. And remember, I'm a lay person. So drop the religious jargon, Jason. Quit being so priestly."

"For the love of God!"

"Oh, calm down. I was just trying to get a rise out of you." She takes one last swallow of He'Brew. "Ugh, I feel sick. I'm gonna find a john and pray to the porcelain god."

She heads for the exit instead. The rabbi goes to her and says, "We're just men, Norah. But hey, if you want to talk later, give me a call, girl." She brushes him off and leaves to walk the streets home.

He returns to the table. The priest shakes his head and says, "You're a star, David."

Not that it matters, but every single time I tried to type rabbi it initially came out as rabbit. If I'd kept it that way, it would've been cuter, but with lots more screwing.

Anyway, our next visitor to the bar will be a bowl of Rice Krispies. (And if you haven't yet made a suggestion, I'll leave the request lines open just a little while longer...)

Now Entering Bar Harbor

When I asked for suggestions on what to bring to the bar scene, I thought you'd lob some softballs my way, items with plenty of potential for puns. Instead, you hit me with things like sea-monkeys and tuberculosis. Oh sure, I've got tons of material for those. And hey, Joelle? Tuberculosis has no physicality. How can it walk into a bar? (Eh, I'll make it work.)¹

Anyway, because I'm lazy everything wouldn't enter the bar at once, I'm going to tackle these one at a time. First up: a sea-monkey, courtesy of Kellie @ Delightfully Ludicrous. Let us begin.

A sea-monkey walks into a bar...on its sea-legs, I suppose. He sits next to a capuchin, pats his stomach, and says to the bartender, "My tank's empty. Get me a water, on tap."

"Hold on, I'll be with you in an instant."

A can of Mountain Dew sits down on the other side of the sea-monkey and says, "Don't order water in a bar. It tastes like piss." It then tries to grab some pickled eggs off the bar, but they all tumble to the floor.

"Who are you to tell me what to do?" says the sea-monkey.

"My name's Brian, shrimp."

"Well, Brian, I don't like how you drop eggs, insult water."

The bartender comes back over. "Okay, what can I get ya?"

"I'll have—"

"Not you. I'll take your orders in the order you sat down: monkey, sea-monkey, Dew.

Well, that's it for day one. Next time you get a priest, a rabbi, and a hooker. (Oh, and by the way, if you haven't made a suggestion yet, the request lines are still open...)


¹ For the purposes of this series, the character of Tuberculosis will be played by Tommy "Two-Toed" Tuberculosis.

Raising the Bar

In my last post, my second footnote had a needle pulling thread walk into a bar. I then proceeded to riff on needles and sewing, churning out pun after glorious pun. It may well be my best footnote to date.¹

The love I got for that bit made me want to challenge myself further. And that's where you come in. What I need from each of you is something that might "walk" into a bar.

It could be another inanimate object, like the needle. Perhaps a profession or celebrity or fictional character. Maybe an animal, vegetable, or mineral. But whatever you give me, they'll soon be entering a bar. And hilarity (or at least vast amounts of punnery) will ensue.

So, what've you got for me?


¹ Mostly because it knows how to sew and can mix a stellar martini. But really, I wouldn't suggest dating any of my footnotes. They don't take anything seriously, and well, I know they say size doesn't matter, but...

And Then I Made a 10-Footer

I haven't blogged much lately.¹ So² I thought,³ to⁴ make it up⁵ to you⁶ (or at least those of you with a footnote fetish),⁷ I would put together an epic post.⁸ Instead, I wrote this. Sorry!⁹ That's Life.¹⁰

¹ Sure, I'm focusing more on my novel (progress is slow but steady), but I also have a nearly 11-month -old (assisted walking is fast but steady), and beneath the carpet in our dining room we discovered linoleum (removal is very slow but for the love of all that is holy, who puts linoleum on top of hardwood?!).

² A needle pulling thread... walks into a bar. The bartender says, "You can't drag all that in here. I'm gonna have to cut you off."
"Darn it!" says the needle. "Quit hemming and hawing. Just give me a beer."
"Oh, you come bobbin in here and want me to tailor my business to your needs? Go lose yourself in a haystack."
"Mother of Pearl! Did you just...? Look me in the eye and say that again."
The bartender smiled pointedly. "Hey, no need to come unraveled."
"You think this is funny?"
"Well, you've got me in stitches."
The needle stalked out. "Cross my heart, I hope you die."
"Prick."

³ A dangerous proposition. The more I think, the more confused everyone else gets.

⁴ A dangerous preposition. I mean, it's involved in all sorts of horrifying things (e.g. death to infidels, a license to kill, From Justin to Kelly).

⁵ I like making things up. Stories, characters, excuses, lists of demands, tests, counters, you name it. Pretty much everything except my mind. Oh, and the bed. I don't see the point.

⁶ And when I say "make it up to you," of course I mean "make me feel less guilty about blogging less. What, you thought this was about you? Get over yourself. It's about me.

⁷ For they are the most susceptible to the advanced stages of blogoscopic footnotosis (formerly acute footnote withdrawal and wheelfiritis). Additional symptoms include stink eye, needle nose, pencil neck, cold shoulder, stiff arm, dead man's hand, wooden chest, flash back, bottom line, peg leg, and chicken foot.

⁸ You know, an exceptionally grandiose blog entry that will change the world. Or a 20-foot-high fence stake intricately carved to tell the entire story of the Iliad. Or an appointment as Über-Delegate to the Grand Poobah of Everything. One of those.

⁹ A game for 2-4 players.

¹⁰ A game for 2-6 players. In which, just like real life, you get a free car before your first job and get to drive it without a license. Of course, if you combine the game with Sorry!, you could end up back at the start, and become a polygamist working multiple jobs to make ends meet. (You might think this is a lame end to the post, but again, it's not all about you. It's about me. As long as I entertain one person, I'm happy. And Mikey, he likes it.)