A guy walked down the street to
The bar. He walks in, the bartender
Says hey, you grabbing anything else
And he looks around, puts his hands
Against thick but bubbled epoxy
Above what looked like bottlecaps,
Under the bubblegum. He picks them
Up and looks at them and says to the
Bartender, “Buddy, could I grab a shot
Of scotch?” With a sort of side-eye
Towards the door, and guy, the bartender
Suggests maybe he should try a beer
Instead.
The guy thinks about it for a moment,
Unzips his coat and reaches in, pulls out
A wad of cash and says, “For the next
Five minutes, I’m of Clan McClintock”.
The guy then, to the barkeeps full
Resentment, proceeds to ask “If you don’t
Want me just to have it here, could you then
Pour it in this flask?”
The bartender, confounded by the full-tilt
Confidence, acknowledges that while he wishes
That the guy would take a walk, He cannot in
Any conscience fulfill PART of his request.
The guy reaches into his jacket pocket, and reveals
A ringing phone. And says “I’M SORRY, I FORGOT”,
And puts it back. The screaming gives all guests a
Semi-sortof heart attack, but the bartender, used to this
Can barely seem to part-react. “A beer then, make it one
And I’ll go home. I’ll be all done”. Instead, the barkeep
Drops a single shot and “Go to bed”. Every body laughs
And they disperse.
The setup’s nonexistent, but what makes it even worse is
The punchline fills the coffin, and the callback drives the hearse.