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Jonothon Voit, a Walking Cocktail. A Walktail.
By jon | November 26, 2007
Jonothon Voit expounded into the bar. It was a ramshackle place, known for its Rampant. 2 rouchnecks were shooting pool. One ball. Two ball. Three balls, four. Setting the table for Madness. The poolballs danced aboudst the table like jay-walking Africans. Jonothon could have hastled those guys like the King of Bel Air; but the time was not right. He only wanted to whet his wistle. If I may, Jonothon Voit was a “drunkaholic”, if I may say so myself. He cracked the Webster knot on his tie and proclaimed the bartend. “Bartender, will you dig my grave. Make it shallow, so that I may feel the rain.” The bartender: a man who was 50 years old. The glass: A tall-boy. The drink: Vodca on the Rokks. Gay guys: Home with the flue. Bartender knew his good tastes. Jonothon said, “Start a tab.” The Bartender knew what that means. He pulled the tab; out came the sweetest cocktail. He stuck in a celery, and Bosh: there was Jonothon Voit’s drink of choosing: Beyonce in a Blue Dress. “On the house, just like you like it. $10.00.”
Jonothon Voit reached into his suit, giv’n to him by the Italian Job, and pulled forth a $10. “Keep the tab. I’ve a date with Lady Pool,” he strolled. He said up to the pool table. “Heyyo, ladies and germs. What’s youare game?????” The one rouchneck snotted his nose at him. “1-ball. Finders keepers, on the house, Jokers Wild.”
High steaks, thought Jonothon. Suddenly, he remembered. 10 years ago the first rouchneck got a large knife and played Tiddlywinks with his moms face and guts. At the same time this was happening 10 years ago, the other rouchneck smoked a bong and was glad. “Keep forgetting this stuff. Gotta get an Opod one of these days.”, he mummered as he grabbed the guy by a head as a man would thusly grasp a Final Four basketball he got at the Pizza Hot. Dribble, Drabble, Head in a metal wall. The other guy (the guy’s friend) ran away, escaping the badlam like moth to a flame. Jonothon Voit chased after him, but; before he did: He paid his tap. “The oldest tip in the book, from the days of your: Yore drink tasted bogus. There’s a school to attend, and I highly recommend, you call 1-800-BARTEND.”
With a sound and a fury, Jonothon Voit was gone, like a plastic fork beneathst the Chalupas.
Topics: By: Jon | 1 Comment »
November 26th, 2007 at 4:31 am
classic