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Registered User
Join Date: Jun 2001
Member # 5371
Location: mn
Posts: 2,924
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Bar funnies from another board. I don't care if'n it's a repost.
I refuse to take the time to bold the quotes... 
Quote:
“We’ve had enough to drink. Now let’s have too much.”
Mike C., 40, raising the bar at the Ale House in Tacoma.
“There’s only two people in this town that I hate, and you’re both of them.”
Ian R., a drunkard with few enemies but much bile, venting at Rosalyn’s Bar and Grill.
“The drinking will continue until you show a dramatic improvement in attitude.”
Sandy T., 28, addressing her “uppity” liver at the Cockpit Lounge.
”No wonder you were sick—look at all the puke you swallowed!”
A bartender’s pithy diagnosis of a patron face down on the bar
“My wife never knew I drank until I made the mistake of coming home sober.”
Overheard at Riley’s Tavern in Broomfield, CO.
"I like it when the booze says, 'You don’t really want to drink me' and I say 'Shut up, fucker, and get in my throat' then I drink it and the fuckin’ booze says 'Got you, fucker!'”
“Gentlemen, at approximately nine o’clock last night, a small scouting force was sent into the vicinity of my liver. They’ve not been heard from. A rescue force was dispatched, but they, too, have been lost. I’m afraid I have no choice but to declare a state of full-scale war with my liver. Time for a martini.”
Lincoln Freimund rallies the troops on New Year’s Eve.
"I kinda like it when the girl makes me buy her a drink or two before making out with me—makes it look like she has standards. At least one of us should."
"Fearless" Jim explaining the intricacies of barroom romance in a NYC tavern.
“Does that thing even work?”
“Shit, man, it’s still warm.”
Exchange between a New Orleans bartender and a crack cocaine enthusiast attempting to sell a George Foreman Grill of dubious origin.
“I’m drinking to get a hangover so I’ll have something to do during my day off tomorrow.”
Fred L. 44, drinking for the future at the Lion’s Lair.
“Sure! What’s in it?”
Troy B.’s rather optimistic response to a bartender’s request of, “You wanna get the hell out of here?” at Club 404.
“I’m not drunk. I have the flu. All this drinking lowered my germ immunity”
Adam M, 32, putting a medical spin on why he fell out of his chair at the High Street Speakeasy.
“I just escaped from detox. Can you drive me to a liquor store?”
Unknown woman, soliciting a ride from a perfect stranger at Speer and 8th Ave
“Hey, I hear there’s free shots after midnight.”
Ulf, 40, at the Round Lounge, three days after the bar was shot up with an assault rifle at midnight.
“You know what the difference between a lounge and bar is? About a dollar a drink.”
Heather B., 24, keeping it cheap and real at Bushwackers Bar.
“I hope I get gigantism so I can grip a forty the whole way around.”
Dave S., on the Modern Drunkard Bulletin Board.
“Go ahead and unload on me, man. I’m pretty sure I’m blacked out right now and won’t remember nothing.”
An extremely loaded, yet intensely self-aware patron at the High Street Speakeasy.
“You’re hard to remember, but easy to forget.”
Trish C., 24, dishing out a sweet burn at the Lion’s Lair.
“How am I supposed to remember everyone’s name? There’s so many of them and so few of me.”
Trish C., 24, keeps them coming at the Lair.
“Whoa! You just fucking scared the hell out of me! Up to now I thought you were a statue.”
To which the bartender at Steve’s Lounge replied, “Naw, I was just petrified by your last big fat fifty-cent tip.”
“Hey, my ride’s here!”
Robin R., 45, upon spotting a police cruiser pulling up in front of the Wigwam Bar and Grill.
“I never met a man’s bar tab I didn’t like.”
Shelly M., 33, updating Will Rogers at Streets of London.
“Listen, you’re going to buy me a drink whether you like it or not. Accept it. Embrace it. Make it your byword. Can’t we just get this over with and move on with our goddamn lives?”
Patrick B., age unknown, accosting a perfect stranger at the Bar Bar.
“I don’t just want the hair of the dog. I want his liver too. Because I think the fucker ate mine.”
Dave B., 39, demanding full retribution at the Lion’s Lair.
“When the fuck did all the bartenders trade in their skills for tits? Did I miss a meeting?”
Jay R., 32, brooding over the plum brandy that found its way into his Manhattan at the Carousel Club.
"You ain't that good looking to be that fucking stupid."
Sam Tipton, 3/4 drunk and moving his head back and forth, trying get his target in focus at J.P. Henley's Saloon.
“I’d tip you, but I need that money to get drunk.”
Unnamed patron vocalizing a very powerful subconscious desire for a very weak Jack and Coke at the Streets of London Pub.
“Hey, fuck face, what happened to your fucked up face?” The erudite Troy B., 39 winning over new enemies at the Lions Lair.
“You’d think if someone really wanted to be mayor, he’d buy a couple rounds for the, you know, potential voters. Because I vote. I vote like crazy.”
Jess T., trying to politic a round from the Wynkoop Brewery, which happens to be owned by Denver Mayoral candidate John Hickenlooper.
“Come on, John, open up. I’ve got stuff to forget.”
Jimmy K., standing outside John’s Liquors, wearing a bathrobe and a watch that reads 8 a.m.
“Depression is just anger without enthusiasm. It’s an empty beer bottle with no one worth throwing it at.”
Norma M., her seething rage barely contained by apathy at the Cricket on the Hill.
“Is it okay to puke in the restroom? Not even in the toilet? I have to go outside? It’s fucking cold outside."
Susy B., all messed up and nowhere to blow in the Squire Lounge.
“When I think about all the people out there that want to kill me, I’m just glad as hell I’m in here drinking with my friends. You are my friends, right?"
Ron T., attempting to separate the Cowboys from the Indians at the Streets of London Pub.
“I want a shot. Do you want a shot? What about you? Hey, you guys want a shot? You? Okay, that’s one, two, three, four, five shots of tequila. Awesome. This is going to be great. Now, who’s got some money, cuz I’m broker than a broke-dick dog.”
Nameless (and shameless) patron at the Lion’s Lair.
“Fuck those guys who ride around in limousines. Fuck them. Even if they got a bar in there, fuck them. How many bottles do you think that little bar has? Five? Maybe ten at the most. How many bottles we got here? A hundred at least. Fuck their little ten-bottle bar. I wouldn’t even want to ride in a limousine, unless I had somewhere important to go.”
Jay H., railing against the sham riches of the ruling class at Bushwackers Saloon.¸
“I once got so drunk I woke up in a tree. Which wasn’t so bad, except the tree was in a different state than I started in. I call that being ‘Cross-Country Tree-Climbin’ Drunk.’”
Roy B., drinking on the ground and in his home state (for now).
“I used to think of Heaven as a bar that was open all the time and everything was free, but now I think of it as a bar that won’t throw me out.”
Jimmy J., wrestling with his lowered expectations in the temporary paradise of the Squire Lounge.
“See that girl over there? I dated her for two months and now she won’t even look at me because I tried to give her cat some bourbon. Hey, Lucy! Hey, Lucy! How’s Whiskers? Is he out of AA yet?”
Joel R., gleefully taunting the ghosts of his past at the Carioca Cafe.
“Yeah, I just threw up too. Wanna get another
pitcher?”
Charlie M., not letting a little regurgitation get in the way of the Beautiful Dream at the Streets of London Pub.
Patron: “I’ll have an extra dry Tanqueray martini on the rocks with a twist and when I can’t say it any more, don’t bring me any more.”
(5 drinks later)
Patron: “I’ll have a Tanqully moonton wit wockers.”
Bartender: “You can’t say it, so you can’t have one.”
Patron: “Okay, I’ll have a scotch and soda.”
Beating the system at Diamond Jim’s Club in Mendota Heights, Minnesota
“Every shot of whiskey I drink is like poison in Bin Laden’s eyes. And before I go home tonight, we’re both going to be blind as bats.”
Johnny K. at Lincoln’s Roadhouse, sticking it to the international terrorist network, one shot of Beam at a time.
“Look at all the those yuppies in there, drinking up all the good hooch, then slappin’ it on a gold card. Make’s ya wanna be commie, don’t it?
Rodney T., leering through Uptown Tavern’s window and seething with proletariat rage.
“Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach him how to fish and he’ll sit in the boat and drink all day.”
Earl P., practicing his fishing skills in the Squire.
“Thou shalt not kill anything less than a fifth.”
Billy F., walking into Scooter’s Liquors with murder is his heart.
“There are people who strictly deprive themselves of each and every eatable, drinkable, and smokeable which has in any way acquired a shady reputation. They pay this price for health. And health is all they get for it. How strange it is. It is like paying out your whole fortune for a cow that has gone dry.”
Sammy C. pontificating over a cigar and bourbon at the Streets of London Pub.
“Waking up hungover and snuggled up in bed with the boss’s 19-year-old daughter and having to walk out of the house past his surprised ass at the breakfast table doesn’t do wonders for your career.”
Duncan J., explaining why he has so much time to drink at William’s Tavern
“Alcohol is like love: the first kiss is magic, the second is intimate, the third is routine. After that you just take the girl’s clothes off.”
Raymond C., falling love all over again with his sixth rye at Ogden St. South.
“I love to drink and I love to sing. But most people like to hear me drink.”
Georgie B. giving the audience what it wants at the Carioca Cafe.
“Drinking when we’re not thirsty is one of the few things that separates us from the beasts.”
Beau T. at Swanky’s, getting more civilized by the minute.
“Being drunk doesn’t make me steal stuff. It makes me get caught.”
Sharon M. at the Lion’s Lair, drinking her first shot since being released from county jail.
“They won’t let me in there. ‘Cause I’m so nice to people. And I tip and drink so good. That’s why. And the time I hit that fucker with a mug, ‘cause he was eyeballing me. Don’t eyeball me and I’m the sweetest motherfucker around.”
Sweet Jerry, languishing in permanent exile outside the Squire Lounge.
"I tried that work thing and I just couldn't get behind it. I mean, you go to work, you get off, you eat some awful meal, you watch some t.v., you go to bed, you wake up and then whole fucking thing stars over again. I mean, there's just no end to it."
Rolly, age 33, unemployed and loving it under a tree along Speer Ave.
"Detox isn't as bad as everyone says. I make a game out of it. I pretend I've been captured by alien robots disguised as humans who are conducting experiments on me. And I just play along, pretending to not know what they're up to. See, it can be fun."
Jose P., age 40, evading the alien robots' grasp three blocks from Hi-Lo Liquors.
“You got any of those smart drinks? No? Give me a scotch then, I usually feel pretty smart after a couple of those.”
John T. at the Squire Lounge, about to get real smart.
“Vermouth is all we have left? It’s always the last asshole in line. I really hate that shit. Is there even alcohol in it? Really? Okay, give me the bottle.”
Pat B. at a disgracefully stocked after-hours party, stuck between an empty keg and a hard taste.
“She said I was an asshole because I’m drunk and my breath stinks. So I asked her to buy me a shot of peppermint schnapps so I’d be only half an asshole.”
Larry L., revealing his own brand of pragmatic romanticism at the Lion’s Lair Lounge.
“The secret of being a good drunk is not to try to hard. To me, it just comes naturally. You might even say it’s effortless.”
T-Bird Barry, calmly sipping while hipping up the amateurs in the alley next to the Lion’s Lair.
“Last night I dreamt you bought me a big bottle of wine. I’m sure it was you. Actually, it was more of a vision than a dream. A prophesy, really. Are you a religious man, sir?”
Malone, testing the faith and gullibility of a perfect stranger one block from Eighth Avenue Liquors.
“I don’t smoke filtered cigarettes for the same reason I don’t drink whiskey through a bar rag.”
Unnamed drinker at the Streets of London, smacking up his pack of Pall Mall straights.
“Can you pour me a Bass while I’m waiting for that Guinness?”
The patient, but not that patient, Tim K. at Nallen's Pub, maximizing his beer drinking time.
"Thunderbird? I hate that shit. Pure piss. Why, do you have any?"
The tasteful but thirsty Johnny K., 45, lingering outside the Kentucky Inn.
“Drunk? You think I’m drunk? Just wait fifteen minutes and I’ll really show you drunk.”
Unnamed drunk at an after-hours speakeasy who oddly seemed surprised when the bouncers didn’t seem interested in waiting long enough to find out if his statement was true.
“Listen fucker! I’m Spider Man and you’re the Green Goblin. Hear me? So I guess you know what’s going to happen next!”
Chuck L., 23, at the Squire Lounge boldly and allegorically challenging his freshly arrived whiskey and coke.
"Holy Shit! There's a Ricks 36 on this street! There's another one on Vine Street!"
"Uh...This is Vine Street."
Tim C., 28, walking home after Octoberfest, apparently not know where home actually was.
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__________________
Brian K. Gallus
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11-03-2005, 01:20 PM
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