Billy-Bob walks into a bar!

The local dive bar, a dimly lit sanctuary of polished mahogany and neon beer signs, has always been a theater for the absurdities of the human condition. It is a place where legends are born over lukewarm drafts and where the line between brilliance and utter confusion becomes delightfully blurred. On a crisp Friday evening, the heavy oak door swung open to reveal Billy-Bob, a man whose grin was wide enough to rival the crescent moon. He sauntered up to the bar with the confidence of a lottery winner, slapped his hand on the counter, and shouted, “Bartender! A round for the house on me!”

The bartender, a man named Sal who had seen everything from wedding proposals to barroom brawls, arched an eyebrow as he lined up the glasses. “Well now, Billy-Bob, you’re certainly wearing a high-voltage smile tonight. Did you strike oil in your backyard, or did you finally convince your ex-wife to give you back the truck?”

Billy-Bob let out a boisterous laugh and shook his head. “Better than that, Sal! Much better. I’ve finally landed a career. The city just hired me for a specialized position. I’m the new official in charge of emptying the parking meters. I start this coming Monday!” Sal offered his sincere congratulations, thinking it was a solid, honest job for a man who had spent most of the last decade searching for his “calling.” He poured the drinks, and the bar toasted to Billy-Bob’s newfound stability.

Monday evening arrived, and the bar was relatively quiet until the door flew open with such force that the hinges groaned. Billy-Bob marched in, looking like he’d just conquered a small nation. His pockets jangled with a heavy, metallic rhythm with every step he took. “Sal!” he bellowed. “Make it two rounds for everyone! The drinks are flowing tonight!”

Sal chuckled as he began pulling taps. “I see the first day on the job went well. If you’re this ecstatic over just the first eight hours of work, I can only imagine how you’re going to act when that first official paycheck hits your mailbox in two weeks.”

Billy-Bob’s expression shifted instantly. His jaw dropped, and a look of genuine, wide-eyed bewilderment took over his face. He reached into his deep pockets, pulled out two massive handfuls of shiny quarters, and stared at them as if they were alien artifacts. “Wait a minute,” he stammered, his voice hushed with wonder. “You mean they’re actually going to PAY me a salary on top of all this?”

While Billy-Bob was busy contemplating his accidental fortune, the “Corner Tavern” across town was hosting a comedy of errors of its own. This particular establishment was a local architectural marvel, featuring three distinct entrances: one on East Street, one on North Street, and a grand double-door right on the corner. It was a design meant for convenience, but for a man deep in his cups, it was a geometric nightmare.

A local regular, who had spent the better part of the afternoon exploring the depths of a bourbon bottle, stumbled through the East Street entrance. He lurched toward the bar, but the bartender—a stern man who brooked no nonsense—took one look at his glazed eyes and wobbly knees. “No chance, pal. You’ve had more than enough. Out you go.”

The drunk grumbled, turned on his heel, and tumbled back out into the night air. He wandered down the sidewalk, confused by the sudden rejection, and turned the corner. There, he spotted a second door. “Aha!” he muttered. “A new start.” He entered the North Street door and approached the bar, only to find the same bartender staring him down. “I told you two minutes ago, you’re cut off. Get out before I call a cab,” the bartender barked.

The man fell back through the door, his brain spinning faster than a Tilt-A-Whirl. He navigated the corner once more, determined to find a place that appreciated his patronage. He stumbled upon the third entrance on the far side of the building. He pushed through, straightened his tie, and marched toward the bar with renewed hope. When he saw the bartender for the third time, he stopped dead in his tracks. He rubbed his eyes, stared intently at the man behind the wood, and threw his hands up in utter despair. “Good grief!” he exclaimed. “Do you own every single bar in this town?”

But the night’s truly legendary tale was occurring a few blocks away at the city hospital, where the stakes were considerably higher and much more personal. A man of legendary modesty and extreme bashfulness had been admitted for an intensive battery of diagnostic tests. The preparation for these tests had left his digestive system in a state of absolute anarchy. After several frantic, heart-pounding sprints to the bathroom that turned out to be false alarms, the man’s nerves were shot.

When he felt the next internal rumble, he decided to play a dangerous game of chicken with his own anatomy. He convinced himself it was another false alarm and stayed put, determined to maintain some shred of dignity. Nature, however, had other plans. In a sudden, catastrophic betrayal of his bodily functions, he filled his hospital bed with a spectacular mess.

Overwhelmed by a wave of embarrassment so intense it bordered on temporary insanity, the man lost all sense of rational thought. In a blind panic, he leapt from the bed, gathered up the soiled sheets in a frantic bundle, and hurled them out the open fourth-story window, hoping to erase the evidence of his shame from existence.

At that exact moment, the same drunk who had been rejected by “all the bars in town” was staggering past the hospital. He was minding his own business, muttering about the bartender’s monopoly, when a massive, white, heavy tangle of fabric plummeted from the sky and enveloped him completely.

Thinking he was under attack by a vengeful spirit, the drunk began to scream. He flailed his arms wildly, swinging punches into the white abyss and cursing at the top of his lungs. He wrestled with the heavy, wet sheets, spinning in circles and fighting for his life until the tangled pile finally slid off his shoulders and landed in a heap at his feet.

He stood there, panting heavily and staring down at the soiled, white mass with a mixture of terror and triumph. A hospital security guard, who had watched the entire surreal event unfold from the guard shack, came running over. He looked at the disheveled man, then at the suspicious-smelling pile on the sidewalk. “What in the name of all that is holy is going on out here?” the guard demanded.

The drunk didn’t look up. He remained focused on the heap of fabric, a look of grim satisfaction crossing his face. He wiped sweat from his brow and replied with total conviction, “I’m not entirely sure, officer, but I think I just beat the absolute hell out of a ghost.”