Guy walked into a bar. “Ouch!” he exclaimed. He looked down to check his watch for a second and wasn’t looking where he was going. He was a bit late, as he got stuck behind a chicken at a crosswalk. And chickens walk slowly. Really slowly. As he got to the Old Joke Saloon, a horse walked out. “Long face, indeed,” he muttered, and trotted away.
The regular crowd was there. The rabbi, the priest, and the minister were reminiscing about old times and subtleties in their differing beliefs. “Well, I’d rather give up pork than women. I’m sorry, that’s just the way I feel.” Across the room were the “blue collar” gang: Lech, the Polish gentleman; Luigi from Italy; and Pedro, whose heritage was Puerto Rican. “Hello, Guy!” they all said, or some reasonable facsimile, with their various accents. “Hey fellas, what’s up?”
“Noting a-much-a,” said Luigi. “We were just a-talking about what we’d want to have in de event we got a-stranded in de desert. I said I’d really a-like-a a big-a barrel of gellati from Napoli!”
Pedro retorted, “I would like a beeg buick so all of my cousins could come and keep me company.”
“What would you want,” Guy asked Lech, “A car door so you could roll down the window?” Everyone laughed, except for Lech.
“Actually I was think more along the lines of an igloo-mobile. But I’ll take your suggestion into consideration. Well boys, I’d best be off. I’m way behind on my designs for the helicopter ejector seats and the domed airport.”
Guy walked passed a table of lawyers. Apparently they had just come from a funeral. “He really was the only one of us who was actually good. And now, he’s dead,” one of them remarked. They all bowed their heads. So it was true. The only good lawyer was a dead lawyer. And as Guy passed, one of them stole his wallet.
There were a whole bunch of blondes near the back of the bar. Two were discussing astronomy. They were, of course, experts from all the time they had spent on their backs. Another was recounting how she failed her drivers test because she couldn’t get used to the front seat. Her friend began laughing at a joke she heard on Monday. It was Friday.
Guy walked up to the bar, passing the drummer, Tim. He’s not very good. He only knows the rim-shot.
“Gimme a shot of whiskey,” he demanded. “Make it a double.”
“We only have glasses here, I hope that’s ok,” replied the bartender, as he wiggled his eyebrows and twirled his cigar. “Why you hittin’ the bottle so hard, son? Did it steal your girl or somethin’?”
“No. This is a bit deeper. I’m having a crisis of faith.”
“Talk to the rabbi, the priest, and the minister. They’ll surely deter you from having faith altogether.”
“It’s not that find of faith. It’s, well, where do I fit in? I mean, everyday I walk into this bar, and every night I leave feeling unfulfilled, like something should have happened. I guess what I’m saying is, where is my punch line?”
“Right around the mid-section, I’d imagine,” said the bartender, and sucker punched him in the gut.
Guy left the bar, unfulfilled and with a sore gut.