A man walks into a bar. He turns around and walks right back out. He knows whatâ€™s coming. Heâ€™s not carrying a duck. Heâ€™s not carrying anything. Heâ€™s a normal guy, thereâ€™s not anything unusual about him. He doesnâ€™t have a slick bet or hustle. He doesnâ€™t have a story to tell. So the bartender will be carrying something. Or heâ€™ll say something strange. Or heâ€™ll meet someone strange at the bar.
The man turns to walk back into the bar. After all, itâ€™s inevitable, right? No, itâ€™s not. He stops. He can avoid the bar. He can go to a cafÃ© for a cup of joe instead. He can go to a juice bar for a wheat grass. Thatâ€™s ridiculous, he would never go for a wheat grass. Who is he kidding? Heâ€™s going to go into the bar.
A priest, a rabbi, and a shaman brush past him and walk into the bar. Thatâ€™s it. He canâ€™t go in now. That coffee sounds good now, even better than a Scotch. Surely thereâ€™s a cafÃ© around here somewhere. He walks down the street a little. Another bar. Maybe on the corner thereâ€™s a cafÃ© or a coffee shop. Heâ€™s never been in a coffee shop â€“ always bars.
A man wearing a hat is leading a horse out of the bar on the corner. Seeing this, the man who doesnâ€™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. â€œWhere is the nearest bar?â€ she asks him. She looks puzzled and hot. Not that kind of hot. Well, yes, but really, warm. Itâ€™s summer, and sheâ€™s wearing a long fur coat. Her cheeks are rosy. Sheâ€™s panting in the late day heat. She needs help. He wonders if sheâ€™s heard the one about theâ€”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 blondeâ€¦.