A Kid in the Bar

I started things off with a needle pulling thread. Here's what's filed into the bar since: a sea-monkey, a priest, rabbi, and hooker, a bowl of Rice Krispies, Jabba the Hutt, tuberculosis, a penguin with William Shakespeare, an old shoe salesman, and a barista, barrister, and barbarian.

Today's suggestion comes courtesy of Beverly Diehl:

A goat walks into a bar. The bartender steps outside and calls, "Hello? Anybody out here? We've got your goat."

"Very funny, kid."

"Whatever, you old goat. Now what do you want? And be quick about it. You shouldn't be in here."

"I want two things. First, a can of Coke, hold the Coke."

"You gonna eat the can? What a pig."

"A pig, me? Please. Second, I'm collecting donations for the Cub Scouts—"

"Curse the Cubs!"

The manager steps up behind the bartender and smacks him with a pan. "Billy! Don't be so gruff with the customers."

"Ow!"

"Now get back behind the bar. And don't just stand there. Look alive, stock the shelves or something." He turns back to the goat as Billy heads to the bar. "Sorry about that. That kid's on rocky ground; complaints against him are mountin'."

"Maybe I should go."

"Nonsense, come to the kitchen with—"

"Yes, you should go!" yells Billy.

"Stay out of this! Again, I'm sorry. He's always trying to horn in on my private conversations. But, if you'll join me in the kitchen, we can talk about a donation."

"That's very kind."

They start walking toward the back. "So, Goat, heard of mutton curry? I'm just about to start a batch." The manager licks his lips.

Billy reaches out from behind the bar and grabs the goat as they pass. He whispers intensely, "Escape, Goat, while you still can. I tried to drive you off, but—"

There is a loud clang, and the bartender slumps to the floor. The manager places the pan on the counter, and puts his hand on the goat's shoulders, shepherding it into the kitchen.

"You know, if you don't mind staying a little while... I'd love to have you for dinner."

And then there was one. Only one more thing will be entering the bar.

And it's me.

A Sidebar at the Coffee Bar

It all began with a needle pulling thread. Since then, these have pushed their way through the door: a sea-monkey, a priest, rabbi, and hooker, a bowl of Rice Krispies, Jabba the Hutt, tuberculosis, a penguin with William Shakespeare, and an old shoe salesman.

Today's alliterative trio comes courtesy of El Julio:

A barista, a barrister, and a barbarian walk into a bar. Barrett, the barrel-chested barbarian (he lifts barbells daily, barring conflict), barks a barrage of orders at the barkeep for mugs of barley and hops.

Barbara, the barista with the barbed wire tattoo and barrettes, barters with him to go half & half on some barbecue wings.

"Where's the baritone?" asks Barrett. "Without Barney, our barbershop quartet won't be complete for the bash at the club. They may cut our act. Though I suppose we could replace him with a bassoon."¹

"You know," says Barbara, "someday I'd like to take a barge to the Great Barrier Reef, perhaps stopping at Barcelona and the Barbary Coast. Just imagine! There could be barracuda and barnacles and Barbarossa and—"

"What does that have to do with anything? Besides, you were raised in a barn. A trip like that might turn out to be more than you bargained for."

"You're always putting up barricades and barriers to my happiness."

"Am not. Say, Bartleby..." Barrett turns to the barrister. "You've been awfully quiet today, but you're always a good barometer for these sorts of arguments. What do you think?"

"I'm not Bartleby." The barrister removes his moustache. "Bartleby is dead."

"The Baron!!"

"Guilty as charged. You should have figured it out when I came in here, though. A barrister is basically a British lawyer, and a lawyer would have passed the bar. Or, whatever its English equivalent is."

"I think it's called a pub."

Two more to go. Next up's a goat.

¹ There you go, Lisa. I have no idea why you wanted a bassoon in there, but it's in there.

Bar Gain Shoes

First into the bar was a needle pulling thread. Then came a sea-monkey, a priest, rabbi, and hooker, a bowl of Rice Krispies, Jabba the Hutt, tuberculosis, and a penguin accompanied by William Shakespeare.

Since my last post was this past Wednesday, perhaps you're wondering why it took so long for this next guy to find his way into the bar. Well, he's old. (Or maybe he just sells old shoes. I didn't ask.)

Anyway, today's suggestion comes courtesy of Lynn Proctor:

An old shoe salesman walks into a bar. As he takes a seat, the bartender says, "Jeez, you stink."

The old man sizes him up. "I advise you to bite your tongue, sir."

"But your odor will drive away my business."

"Tread lightly. Now I would like—"

"Perhaps you'd enjoy a seat on our patio? Honestly, your stench is beginning to clog my nasal passages."

"Sir, my patience with you is wearing thin. Now, I've been straight-laced my whole life, but I've been told I must try your signature drink."

The bartender arches one eyebrow. "The Steel Toad?"

"That's the one. My stepson recommends it highly. It's my sole reason for coming here."

"Stepson, huh? Wow, with your smell I'd have pegged you as a bachelor."

"Lord, you're such a heel. The converse is true. I'm married, with children."

"Let me level with you. It's an expensive drink, and not only do you stink, but you're shoddily dressed to boot. You sure you can foot the bill?"

The old man socks the bartender in the mouth and walks out.

With this subject matter, you probably expected at least one footnote, didn't you? Well, as they say, expect the unexpected.¹ And come back soon; the alliterative trio of barista, barrister, and barbarian are barging in next.


¹ Although, in this case, perhaps you should have unexpected the expected. Then again, I've ruined things by adding this, haven't I? Drat. That is so like me.

Behind Bars at the Zoo

So, a needle pulling thread started this whole endeavor. Then a sea-monkey entered the bar, followed by a priest, rabbi, and hooker, a bowl of Rice Krispies, Jabba the Hutt, and tuberculosis.

Today's original suggestion of a penguin was supplied by Katy Manck, though my wife Denise decided to complicate matters by throwing someone else into the mix:

A penguin and William Shakespeare walk into a bar. The penguin looks to the other and says, "What have we here? A man or a fish?"

Shakespeare studies the penguin. "You don't get out much, do you?"

"Not till this March. But I'm on the run now. That's why I'm hiding out in this dive. Morgan Freeman is stalking me at every turn."

"That doesn't sound so bad... though he did attack Rome, and kill Caesar." Shakespeare scans the room. "You should be careful. Where are you headed?"

"I have family in the sewers of Gotham."

"Oh, you shan't lose your tail in Gotham. Morgan Freeman's a fox."

They call over their server, who had been waiting in the wings, and order a couple cold ones.

"You know," says Shakespeare. "We're polar opposites, you and I."

"How so?"

"You know how to play right. You keep your feet happy. Mine oft turn tragic."

"I thought you called yours meter."

"Are you trying to egg me on?"

"No."

"Okay, I'll let it slide."

"Actually, I envy your work, William. O, to be black and white and read all over."

"Just let your ideas incubate for a while, and you might soar to great heights."

"What would you know about soaring? You're just a flightless bard."

This piece may not be as pun-filled as its predecessors, but hey, you try to write groan-worthy witticisms in 95° temperatures. It's entirely possible my brain has melted. Anyway, next one into the bar is an old shoe salesman, so stay tuned.

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.)