Knock-knock

A man walks into a bar. He turns around and walks right back out. He knows what’s coming. He’s not carrying a duck. He’s not carrying anything. He’s a normal guy, there’s not anything unusual about him. He doesn’t have a slick bet or hustle. He doesn’t have a story to tell. So the bartender will be carrying something. Or he’ll say something strange. Or he’ll meet someone strange at the bar.

The man turns to walk back into the bar. After all, it’s inevitable, right? No, it’s not. He stops. He can avoid the bar. He can go to a café for a cup of joe instead. He can go to a juice bar for a wheat grass. That’s ridiculous, he would never go for a wheat grass. Who is he kidding? He’s going to go into the bar.

A priest, a rabbi, and a shaman brush past him and walk into the bar. That’s it. He can’t go in now. That coffee sounds good now, even better than a Scotch. Surely there’s a café around here somewhere. He walks down the street a little. Another bar. Maybe on the corner there’s a café or a coffee shop. He’s never been in a coffee shop – always bars.

A man wearing a hat is leading a horse out of the bar on the corner. Seeing this, the man who doesn’t want to walk into a bar stops and surveys the block. He realizes that every door on this block leads into a bar. No cafes, no coffee shops. Just bars.

A woman approaches, blonde. “Where is the nearest bar?” she asks him. She looks puzzled and hot. Not that kind of hot. Well, yes, but really, warm. It’s summer, and she’s wearing a long fur coat. Her cheeks are rosy. She’s panting in the late day heat. She needs help. He wonders if she’s heard the one about the—no, better not ask that. He offers to show her the nearest bar and buy her a cold drink. She smiles, so grateful, and takes his arm.

A man walks into a bar with a blonde….

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