Bar Talk

Normally, I don’t like to steal material from other writers to use in this blog.  Well, that’s not entirely true; I steal a lot, but I usually try to disguise the theft. In this case, however, I’m reprinting verbatim a very clever Facebook post, whose author is anonymous, but nonetheless deserves to stand up and take a bow.

Herewith, a few variations on the “man walks into a bar” jokes:

            A dangling participle walks into a bar. Enjoying a cocktail and chatting with the bartender, the evening passes pleasantly.

            A bar was walked into by the passive voice.

            An oxymoron walked into a bar, and the silence was deafening.

            Two quotation marks walk into a “bar.”

            A malapropism walks into a bar, looking for all intensive purposes like a wolf in cheap clothing, muttering epitaphs and casting dispersions on his magnificent other, who takes him for granite.

            Hyperbole totally rips into this insane bar and absolutely destroys everything.

            A non sequitur walks into a bar. In a strong wind, even turkeys can fly.

            A mixed metaphor walks into a bar, seeing the handwriting on the wall but hoping to nip it in the bud.

            A comma splice walks into a bar, it has a drink and then leaves.

            Three intransitive verbs walk into a bar. They sit. They converse. They depart.

            A synonym strolls into a tavern.

            At the end of the day, a cliché walks into a bar -- fresh as a daisy, cute as a button, and sharp as a tack.

            A run-on sentence walks into a bar it starts flirting. With a cute little sentence fragment.

            The conditional and the subjunctive would walk into a bar, if it were possible.

            A misplaced modifier walks into a bar owned a man with a glass eye named Ralph.

            The past, present, and future walked into a bar. It was tense.

            An Oxford comma walks into a bar, where it spends the evening watching the television getting drunk and smoking cigars.

            A simile walks into a bar, as parched as a desert.

            A gerund and an infinitive walk into a bar, drinking to forget.

The Bard of Buffalo bayou walks into a bar every chance he gets.  When he comes out, he’s usually staggering and clutching a sheaf of dubious verses, such as:

             A florist walked into a bar,

            And said, “I’ll have two Buds.”

            A laundress who was with him said,

            “Just pour me up some suds.”

            “On second thought,” the laundress said,

            “Make that a cup of Cheer.”

            And then an undertaker said,

            “I think I’ll have a bier.”           

            An optician walked into the bar

            And said, “I’d like two glasses.”

            A fisherman then said, “I want

            Some ale—make that two Basses.”

            A milkman walked into the bar,

            And said, “I’ll take a quart.”

            A sailor right behind him said,

            “I’m really into port.”

            A cotton farmer in the bar

            Remarked, “I need a gin.”

            A census-taker then came in

            And asked for Mickey Finn.

            A contortionist squeezed in

            And called out, “Bottom’s up!”

            Omar Khayyam came in then

            And wrote, “Come fill the cup.”

            A gunman walked into the bar

            And said, “I’ll take a shot.”

            A realtor scanned the drink list and

            Declared, “I’ll have the lot.”