A woman walks into a bar. She’s clearly very inebriated, swaying with each step, her hair a little mussed and her coat hanging off one shoulder. She stumbles toward the bartender, gripping the counter for balance. “I… I will have a whiskey schlour!” she slurs, her words almost incomprehensible.
The bartender, a tall man with patience etched into his face, shakes his head. “I can’t serve you, ma’am. You’ve had too much.”
The woman frowns, her cheeks puffing out in frustration. She stumbles toward the exit, nearly tripping over a bar stool, and disappears through the front door.
A few minutes later, she reappears—but now she sneaks in through the side entrance, her expression determined. “Barkeep, give me Gin and Ginger,” she hiccups, swaying slightly like a ship in rough seas.
The bartender sighs, rubbing his temples. “As I told you before, I can’t serve you. Would you like me to call you a cab?”
She stops, tilts her head, and squints at him through blurry eyes. After a moment, she shakes her head and shuffles back out the side door, muttering to herself.
Minutes pass, and she is back again, this time striding confidently through the front door like a queen returning to her throne. “Give me Blue Motorcycle!” she demands, her voice slurred but forceful.
The bartender, who has now completely lost his patience, leans over the counter, his face stern. “Look, ma’am, if you do not let me call you a cab, I’m going to have to call the police.”
She peers at him with bloodshot, watery eyes, her gaze unfocused, and mumbles in a voice that barely rises above a whisper, “How many friggin’ bars do you work at??”
Meanwhile, a pirate walks into a bar, his coat dripping from a stormy voyage and his boots caked with mud and salt. The bartender, wiping down the counter, looks up. “Hey, I haven’t seen you in a while. What happened? You look terrible.”
Captain Hook leans on his cane, squinting. “What do you mean? I feel fine,” he says with a crooked grin.
The bartender points to his leg. “What about the wooden leg? You didn’t have that before.”
“Well,” says the pirate, “we were in a battle, and I got hit with a cannonball. But I’m fine now.”
“Okay, but what about that hook?” the bartender asks, pointing at his hand. “What happened there?”
Another shrug from Hook. “We were in another fight. I boarded a ship and got into a sword duel. My hand… well, it got cut off. They fitted me with a hook. I’m fine, really.”
The bartender notices the eye patch. “And the eye patch?” he asks, raising a skeptical brow.
“Oh, that,” Hook mutters. “One day we were at sea, and a flock of birds flew overhead. One of them… well, it, uh… it… left a present in my eye.”
“You’re kidding,” the bartender says, incredulous. “You couldn’t lose an eye just from bird droppings.”
Hook leans back, grinning wryly. “It was my first day with the hook.”
A man comes home late one night, swaying slightly and smelling strongly of alcohol. His wife, sitting on the couch with a book, looks up sharply. “Where have you been?”
He sways closer, plopping down next to her with a proud smile. “In the Golden Bar! They have golden chairs, golden glasses, golden beer, and… a golden urinal!”
His wife’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Golden urinal?” she repeats, her tone sharp. She grabs her phone and dials the bar immediately.
“Do you have golden chairs?” she asks.
“Yes,” comes the calm voice on the other end.
“Do you have golden glasses?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have golden beer?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a golden urinal?”
There’s a pause, then a voice mutters cautiously, “Hold on… I think we have a line on the guy who pissed in your saxophone.”