Clyde pitches a joke

Saturday 10 January 2009

Ok, there’s this pub, right, but it’s one of those “local” pubs where only “locals” go, it’s got that particular look. There’s some guys sitting over at a table and a couple of resident barflies at the bar sipping their beers, and the barman behind the counter doing whatever it is barmen do. You got it? But then the door flies open and in the door way is this huge black frame silhouetted in the light from the street and everyone turns to face the door, but then the door closes and we see it’s actually a weedy young feller with one of those huge backpacks. 

So the feller heads to the bar, plomps his pack at his feet and takes up a seat next to the barflies. He smiles at them but they just stare back, so he looks waiting for the barman.

You with me so far?

So the barman comes over and says, “What can I get you?”; and the feller says, “A beer.”; and the barman says, “What kind of beer?”; and the feller says, “What kind of beer you got?”

“Well,” says the barman, “We got lots of different beers, but people ’round here drink Carradine.”

“Then I’ll have a Carradine, please,” says the feller. So the barman pours him a Carradine.

The feller takes his beer, raises the glass, turns to the ‘flies next to him, and says, “Cheers!”; and the ‘flies are still just staring at him, they haven’t moved a muscle; so the feller turns back front-wards and takes a big gulp of his beer.

“Ah!” he says with a big satisfied expression.

But then, and this is the important bit, the feller starts to look uncomfortable, right; and his faces turns, like, a bright red; and then he starts to tremble on his seat; and, and smoke starts to come out of from under his collar and his shirt sleeves; and everyone else is just watching him all casual-like, as if nothing weird’s happening; but all the time the feller is shaking more and more; and there’s this noise of steam escaping; and all this smoke. And then the guy suddenly spontaneously combusts in this huge ball of flames; and the beer coasters catch on fire; and the liquid in the bottles behind the bar bubbles; and everyone’s not doing anything, you see; and then the flames stop and the bar is all singed and the roof blackened and the seat melted; and as the smoke clears all that’s left is this pile of smoking ashes and a pair of shoes.

After a moment the barfly closest to the ashes takes a long slow pull of his beer, then turns and gives a small kick to the ashes.

“You’re not from ’round here, then?” says the ‘fly.