“Glass of water with a Beam chaser. I’m only half on the wagon.”
No stranger to compromise orders a round at Three Kings Tavern.
“I’m an alcoholic. I haven’t had a drink in 22 years. I’m a dry drunk.”
Totally confused old dude on the #14 bus who has absolutely no idea how drinking works.
You’re only too drunk for open mic if you’re so drunk you don’t know you’re too drunk for open mic.
Jen BaldEagle (@JenBad47) nails it on Twitter.
“This isn’t going to turn into an all night party, is it?”
Someone’s wife after someone said he was going to visit a friend recovering from brain surgery in a highly-secure Intensive Care Unit.
I MEAN SHIT I GET TIRED OF SHIT ALL THE TIME. MOVIES GAMES TV SHOWS PEOPLE. LIQUOR NEVER GETS OLD. EVER. IT FUCKING OWNS. IT FUCKING OWNS
ZODIAC MOTHERFUCKER (@ZODIAC_MF) reaffirms hallowed truths on TWITER.
“There’s a lot of nonsense talked about alcoholism, there really is. If it’s a disease, it’s the only one that comes with buffalo wings.”
Danny B. strolling down the bright side of the road.
“Life’s too short for suicide.”
Unknown drinker at an informal wake in a Colfax bar.
“Sober ‘up’ suggests something positive and fun is happening. I think we should change the phrase to ‘sober down.’”
A savage-looking but surprising erudite day-drinker at Brendan’s Pub.
“It’s sort of like the Under the Table Economy everybody is talking about, except I call it the I Drink You Under the Table Economy.”
Hugh M. explains why the last person standing should be allowed to walk out on a group tab.
“Here I am sending you this mail to know the reply which should be said to bartender when he offer to touch the beer bottle when he come to serve you!”
Email/riddle from the iPod of Vicky at very late hour.
“Today has been a good couple of days.”
Shepperd D. at the tail end of a monumental bender.
“Of course a Manhattan is a brunch drink; it has a fucking cherry in it.”
Alex H., 29, to a sanctimonious mimosa-drinking brunch companion.
“Ordering pizza while drunk is like throwing yourself a surprise party.”
Andrea H. via Twitter
“Got my first year sobriety chip.”
Sean M., 53, after being asked, “What’s the occasion?” while purchasing a case of sparkling wine at Trader Joe’s.
“Shelly really needs to clean the carpet. It tastes terrible.”
After giving a surprise inspection, Eric offers janitorial advice at Shelly’s Swan Club.
“You don’t need time to drink, you need time to breathe in between.”
Kyle C. (AKA Pitcher) while hanging with the boys.
“I’m all for getting drunk and fucking the waitress, but can we not call it ‘being a gentleman?’”
Jay F., 26, at Cross-Eyed Seagull, in response to a fellow bragging about what a gentleman he was.
“If you don’t drink, then all of your stories suck and end with, ‘And then I got home.’”
Jim Jefferies explains why his stories never suck.
“The only downside of drinking in a bar day-in and day-out is you have to put up with a lot of worthless drunks.”
Unnamed gentleman during a dispute with the cigarette machine at JR’s Bar and Lounge.
“Everybody gets too drunk sometimes. And if they don’t, then I will do it for them.”
Joan M., 31, selflessly offers to pick up the slack at the Lancer Lounge.
“No, I’m still drunk from this morning.”
Alex T., 36, at the Lancer Lounge, responding to the lunchtime query, “Are you still drunk from last night?”
“I do have a job. What the fuck do you think I’m doing here?”
Wino holding up a cardboard sign on Speer Blvd., responding to the usual scurrilous accusations.
“The problem with most cops is they have a hard time telling the difference between a felony and just fucking around.”
Adam V., 38, at 3 Kings Tavern explaining why he was arrested for “not a goddamned thing.”
“The first refreshes, the sixth gets the party started, and next-to-last means you have one more left. At least one more.”
Francis, 47, defines the “three best drinks of the day” at Tooheys Off Colfax.
“Whiskey is my comb.”
A rather disheveled-looking gentleman explaining his carefree and bold hairstyle at the Lancer Lounge.
“I see you. But do you see me?”
Amy S., 23, either questioning a bartender’s attentiveness or determining if she’d managed to drink herself invisible.
“I am standing. The room just turned sideways is all.”
Mark pondering physics from the floor of an after-hours party.
“Alcohol is the devil. Woo-hoo! I’m partying with the devil!”
A rather scruffy-looking brute backsliding with the best of them at the Drunkard National Convention of ‘08.
“You can get away with wearing just your underwear. You can get away with vomiting on yourself. You can even get away with screaming insane shit at me. But, for the love of Christ, not all three at the same time.”
The most easygoing bartender on planet Earth laying down the law at the Troubadour Lounge.
“Don’t you dare let me remember this. Ever.”
Unnamed woman addressing a shot of bourbon before exiting the Lancer Lounge on the arm of very recent acquaintance of questionable quality.
“Always fall to your left. Drinks, yours especially, are much less likely to suffer.”
Sage advice from Irish Sean at the Good Time Saloon.
“I love alcohol. It’s in my blood.”
Paul M. spells it out genealogically (and literally) at the Three Kings Tavern.
“Buy me a beer and thank me later!”
Sheppy’s weak but unique way of soliciting a free beer at the Ron De Voo.
“People tell me, ‘Oh, you just drink to escape your problems.’ Well, no shit. I’d eat rat heads if it let me ditch my problems.”
Fred R. spells it all out in front of Walgreen’s.
“Drinking blows my brains out. It blows out all the crap in my head and allows new and better ideas to seep in.”
Michael C. pulling the trigger on a double bourbon at the Streets of London Pub.
“I drink because I prefer the company of drunks, and they don’t like sober people hanging around, making faces.”
Tim M. making sure no one feels uncomfortable at the Lion’s Lair.
“We’re 1/16th American Indian. And since we’ve both had at least 16 drinks, by my calculations we’re about to go on the warpath.”
One of a pair of siblings makes a radical prediction at Lancer’s Lounge, shortly before going berserk.
“Before you throw me out, make sure I pay my bar tab.”
The fatalistic and honorable Peter M.’s customary greeting to bartenders.
“Oh, I hate alcohol, too. Give me a bottle of the stuff and I’m pissing it right out an hour or two later.”
An agreeable gent communing (and commuting) with a church-bound crone at a bus stop on Broadway Ave.
“What’s the scariest sound in the world? Ice rattling in an empty glass.”
Observation by Gordon at the Ale House in Tacoma, WA.
“Can you mute the idiot box?”
Charlene T. making a polite request in a bar with zero TVs and one loudmouth.
“Is that a fifth in your bloodstream, or are you really happy to see me?”
A skeptical guest to an overly-welcoming host at a cocktail party in Boston.
“That jerk is the ugliest, smelliest, assholiest fuck-face on the planet. I would never sleep with him again.”
An unnamed lady shores up her future standards at the Lion’s Lair Lounge.
“Alcoholism is the only disease they yell at you for having.”
Tina R. channelling the late great Mitch Hedberg at the Three Kings Tavern.
“I’m going down to the bar to sober up.”
Dan M. bowing out of a hard-pounding party at midnight.
“I’m in the midst of a one-man intervention.”
John C., when asked why he is eschewing his usual bourbon rocks for draft beer at the Old Curtis St. Pub.
“Can I get a shot of whiskey to wash down that shot of tequila?”
Terry T. clearing her palette at the Hondo Lounge.
“I’m not fat. I’m larger than life.”
Pete R. placing his impressive girth into a kinder light at the Lion’s Lair Lounge.
“Gotta early A.A. meeting tomorrow.”
Drunkard, name unknown, explaining why he has to leave the Lancer Lounge a full half hour before last call.
“I’m looking for a big strong tab I can warm myself next to.”
Cheryl “the Bear” upon being asked what she’s doing sitting at the bar of the Retreat Tavern without a drink.
“I don’t hide inside the bottle. The bottle hides inside me.”
Patrick M. slowly camouflaging a bottle of gin at the Lion’s Lair.
“Why should I apologize? It was my beer!”
Bessie after spilling her Sierra Nevada into Darius’ lap at Matty’s Corner, Black Rock, CT.
“You know, man, some people may call you a stoner, but to me you’ll always be a drunk.”
Mike L, 23, complimenting his buddy Duffy over a bottle of Windsor and bong loads in a California hotel room.
“They treat me like a king in this bar, because I act like one.” Tony T., roughly 25 minutes before being “crowned” by the bartender and carried from the bar for helping himself to one of his minion’s beer at the Corner Bar, Newark, NJ.
“Why you reading a book in a bar? That’s like arm-wrestling on the Moon.”
Name unknown dishing out a unique brand of logic at the Curtis St. Lounge.
“I’m sort of a fashion nut, and I was just checking on what kinda shoes people are wearing this season.”
Charlie picking himself off the floor of the Broadway Bar and Grille in Nashville, TN.
“I am brilliant and charming. You are overly talkative. He is disgustingly drunk.”
Dan M. at the Cruise Room explaining the contrary effects of five martinis on three different people.
“Either you’re too drunk or I’m too sober.”
Sara N. attempting to get to the bottom of why she can’t understand a friend’s conversation.
“When I’m loaded I feel like a glamorous movie star with a totally retarded publicist.”
Terry S. struggling to rationalize heightened self-esteem and lukewarm reviews at the Carioca Cafe.
“I went out last night and didn’t drink a drop. I talked all night and in the morning I remembered everything I said. It was horrifying.”
Juan R. explaining his third shot of the afternoon at Swanky’s.
“How do you look when I’m sober?”
Ring L. postulating a question to a gent with a strikingly eccentric hair style.
“A hangover is just Beer’s way of reminding you you shouldn’t have stopped.”
Pat S. channeling the God of Hops at Gabby’s Bar in Toronto.
“Call my number. I don’t want to reach down in there if it doesn’t work.”
Jake B. asking a friend to call the cell phone he just dropped in the Streets of London Pub’s toilet.
“See, that’s the problem. I get so drunk I always forget I said it.”
Robert N. explaining why he has already managed to break the previous night’s promise of “I’ll never get this drunk again.”
“It’s not ‘drinking for breakfast,’ sir. It’s merely round 12 of my nightcap.”
Anonymous patron shrugging off disdain from a waiter during a morning diner visit.
“I drink well tequila because we wicked drunks need to be punished.”
Lady P. beating herself up at the Squire Lounge.
“If you want something you’ll have to speak up. I can understand Drunk all day long but I’m not fluent in Shit Head.”
A waitress named Stacy giving a brief linguistics lesson to a belligerent and mumbling patron.
“Keep your legs together, and don’t get high-centered.” Bobby Mac on most any Friday night in the Miles Inn, Sioux City, IA.
“It’s because I don’t believe in God that I am so terrified of him.”
Mike S. grappling with a dubious belief system and a double bourbon at the Lion’s Lair.
“Common sense is for commoners, and I happen to be a royal asshole.”
Unidentified patron fending off a bartender’s query of “Do your think another shot is sensible?” at the Squire Lounge.
“I thought I was dancing ‘til somebody stepped on my hand.”
J.D. after nine J.D.s in Club AK, Fairbanks, AK.
“Bartender, one more pony Bud, please. They give me the illusion of height to fend off the Lilliputians.”
Reggie elevating his stature and sense of the absurd in Hank’s Saloon, Brooklyn N.Y.
“You better stop drinking because you’re getting
Mono R. looking after his friends and his eighth shot of tequila.
“Hey, can you help me find my cell phone? I need to call my cigarettes.”
Laurie G. getting her act together over a Bloody Mary at a house party.
“This is the point in the day where everything good goes to shit!”
Travis K. wrestling with imminent woe and a Bloody Mary at 7:30 am.
“Excuse me, sir, care to make a donation to the United Negro Michelob Fund?”
An unusually honest panhandler outside Murphy’s Pub, Alexandria, VA.
“It’s hard being a student and a drunk, but I try to keep my GPA near my BAC. I got a 4.0 last semester, but my grades didn’t do so good.”
Jim H. balancing the books and the booze at the Lion’s Lair.
“If you don’t drink in the morning, you can’t be drunk all day.”
Uncle Tom breaking out philosophy and the first beer of the morning.
“Now that I can see two of you, you’re twice as hot.”
Kasja M. doubling her vision and dishing out the compliments at Red Square.
“I’m afraid of three things: Women, snakes, and the police. They all have the ability to hurt me and make it look like it was my fault.”
Gil H. sums up his fears at Auntie Mae’s Parlor in Manhattan, KS.
“Look on the bright side — eventually a new girl will come along and break your heart, then you’ll forget all about her.”
A friend’s comforting words at the Magic Stick in Detroit.
“If you want to drink all day, you gotta start early.”
Unnamed drunk at Mary’s Cafe, Clifton Heights PA.
“If you run that through some cheesecloth, that’s a perfectly good shot.”
Jeff W. at the 1902 Tavern in Pittsburgh after his date, Kim, gulped a double shot of Crown Royal then immediately and matter-of-factly puked it back into the glass
“Gin is a morose widow. Tequila is the supple mistress with the cojones to attend the funeral. Pour me some mistress.”
Scott Q. after being offered a gin and tonic at the Firehouse Bar.
“There’s a point where every man has to draw the line and say enough is enough, Eric. The problem I run into is that I’m a real patient person.”
Ralph justifying his latest blackout to the bartender at the Starlite Cafe in Jacksonville.
“Whose round is it? Can’t be mine already, I bought one four drinks ago. Who’s the fifth guy? Where’s that asshole? Step up to the plate! Fifth man up!”
George T., 24, searching for the ever-elusive fifth man in the shadows of the Streets of London Pub, not comprehending the fifth man is, after all, all of us.
“Yeah, if they cut off all your fingers.”
Tim H.’s reply to Terry A.’s boast of “I can count the number of women I wouldn’t fuck on one hand,” at JR’s Lounge.
“Anybody not using their tab?”
Mike L. checking for a little slack at Lincoln’s Roadhouse.
“Let’s drink ‘til we can’t feel feelings anymore.”
Peter G. sets the course for Blackout Island outside the Drunken Clam.
“I’ll fuck the guinea pig but I won’t be the fuckin’ guinea pig.”
Jeff, drunk but not crazy drunk, being dared to jump off a balcony into the Chicago River.
“Hey, bro, can you spare fifty cents? My car ran out of gas and I need some gas money so I can catch the bus to Boulder. Ah, shit, I fucked that one up. I meant to say I need a cup of coffee and some food and shit. And it’s July 4th. Pretty near. Fuck you.”
Name refused, still working out the kinks on the 16th Street Mall.
“The optimist sees the glass half full. The pessimist sees the glass half empty. The drunk says, ‘Are you gonna drink that’?”
Robert G. eschewing the philosophical for the practical.
“So, have you always been a tool, or are you just going for the ‘look’?”
Bartender Lifto welcomes a slumming and high- maintenance yuppie to the Casino El Camino .
“You’re paying off like the world’s worst slot machine.”
Rick E. watching his friend regurgitate expensive scotch outside the Whiskey Bar.
“You have abused the right to say something stupid.”
Tom B. in Orlando after getting his fill of his barstool neighbor.
“I tried drinking myself to death. Now I have to get my health back just so I’ll have the strength to jump in front of a bus.”
Tracy M. switches mortal gears in Manhattan, KS.
“These floozies aren’t sluts, man. They’re just liberated.”
Aaron B. strikes a blow against entrenched sexism at the Squire Lounge.
“The damn wagon’s too crowded anyway.”
Anonymous drunk about to take a fall in front of the Lions Lair Lounge.
“Before I order the cabernet, may I examine its box?”
Ross L making broad assumptions as to the quality of wine served at Joe’s Pit Stop.
“I used to drink to get drunk. Now I just get friend-shot-buying stupid.”
Johnny G. toasting his brother-in-law’s son at Red Square.
“Here’s to all the women out there! They sure fuckin’ treated my ass right!”
Andy K. toasting his impending divorce and imminent bachelor status while reacquainting himself with his old pal Canadian Club.
“Did you just say that or did I?”
A confused Blake W. after a moment of silence in Wingo Saloon.
“The drinking will continue until you show a dramatic improvement in attitude.”
Sandy T., 28, addressing her “uppity” liver at the Cockpit Lounge.
“Everybody gets fucked over by the world sooner or later. It just happened to you a little sooner than you probably expected.”
Bonnie B. comforting a heartbroken friend at the Squire Lounge.
“She spilled a beer on me. That’s foreplay.”
Paul responding to either clumsiness or a come-on in the Satire Lounge.
“You better pour me a shot of Turkey. I don’t want to drink too much beer on an empty stomach.”
Grimace Hornbuckle at the Kitty Kat Club moments before darkness descended.
“I used to live to work. Then I worked to live. Then I worked to drink. Now I must drink to work.”
G.J. clocking in at work, partly drunk and fully functional.
“It’s at the bottom, luv.”
Maggie at Nallen’s savvy reply to “Why didn’t you pour a clover shape into my pint of Guinness?”
“We’ve had enough to drink. Now let’s have too much.”
Mike C., 40, raising the bar at the Ale House in Tacoma.
“According to the wussies, last night was a six binger.”
Luke S. co-opting the Man’s rap by applying their current definition of binge drinking (5 drinks in a row) to the previous evening’s festivities.
“There’s only two people in this town that I hate, and you’re both of them.”
Ian R., a drunkard with few enemies but much bile, venting at Rosalyn’s Bar and Grill.
“Bar stools are like prostitutes. And if you think one belongs just to you, you’re setting yourself up for a lifetime of heartbreak.”
Unnamed drunk rebuffing a regular’s claim of dominion at Jay’s Lounge.
“It’s the name of a new drink.”
A very loud (and very brief) visitor to The Corner Lounge explaining why he walked in and shouted, “Buncha cocksuckers!”
“Don’t worry, I speak the lingo.”
Wendy B., shortly before repeatedly shouting “Fuck off!” at a panhandler working the patio fence at the Streets of London Pub.
“Looks like we got ourselves three pitchers and a bottle of Wild Eye there.”
Unnamed and wily wino deftly translating the handful of change in a newfound friend’s hand outside John’s Liquors.
“It sucks when decent, hardworking people get screwed over like that. Because that means pricks like us don’t stand a chance.”
Jim S. watching the devastation of the recent tsunami on the television at JR’s Bar.
“Let us never speak of this again.”
John N., confronting an empty bottle of whiskey and full bottle of vermouth.
“I was in Hollywood a long, long time. I was on the verge of making it too, but some cocksucker stole my shopping cart and I was back to square one.”
John The Juice, 45, decrying the unfairness of the Hollywood system.
“I used to drink with Jack Kerouac. We’d buy each other drinks all night, and sometimes when I was broke he’d buy all my drinks. Especially after he became a big movie star. I didn’t need any money, I’d just work for drinks. He understood that very well. Hey, aren’t you in the movies, too?”
Rusty P., 58, trying to build bar tabs through association.
“Things are a lot more like they used to be than they are now.”
Graffiti in the men’s room of Gritty McDuff’s Portland Brew Pub, Portland, ME.
“It’s okay, I already asked.”
Nick G., 22, responding to the bartender’s inquiry as to why he is refilling his glass from the tap.
”No wonder you were sick—look at all the puke you swallowed!”
A bartender’s pithy diagnosis of a patron face down on the bar
“Either I’ve fallen down or you guys have turned into giants.”
Joey D. enjoying his new perspective from the floor of the Lion’s Lair Lounge.
““Let’ssss leave in mysssstery.”
Amy slurring and sneaking her way out the back door of a New Orleans bar, leaving behind the two soon-to-be-mystified gentlemen who bought her and her friend drinks all night.
“If you didn’t serve me last night, what makes you think I’d remember that?”
Unnamed drunk in the James Joyce Pub in response to the bartender’s query of: “If we didn’t serve you last night, what makes you think we’re going to serve you this afternoon?”
“The jukebox is the drunkard’s fireplace.”
Troy B., warming himself to Wheel in the Sky in the Streets of London Pub.
“Why am I homeless? Why do all you motherfuckers need homes is the real question.”
Tony R., footloose, rent-free and begging for spare change in front of the Denver Public Library.
“My wife never knew I drank until I made the mistake of coming home sober.”
Overheard at Riley’s Tavern in Broomfield, CO.
“Time for a cup of Good Morning America.”
Shannon D., opening his first (but not the last) beer of the a.m.
“Wow, that one had corners on it.”
Darren at the Cricket on the Hill after knocking back a shot of well scotch.
“Yes, and I have the solution right here,”
Jake S., 29, responding to the comment that he might have a drinking problem at the Lion’s Lair Lounge.
“I like it when the booze says, ‘You don’t really want to drink me’ and I say ‘Shut up, fucker, and get in my throat’ then I drink it and the fuckin’ booze says ‘Got you, fucker!’”
Blackneto relates a recurring conversation on the MDM BBS.
“Gentlemen, at approximately nine o’clock last night, a small scouting force was sent into the vicinity of my liver. They’ve not been heard from. A rescue force was dispatched, but they, too, have been lost. I’m afraid I have no choice but to declare a state of full-scale war with my liver. Time for a martini.”
Lincoln Freimund rallies the troops on New Year’s Eve.
“I kinda like it when the girl makes me buy her a drink or two before making out with me—makes it look like she has standards. At least one of us should.”
“Fearless” Jim explaining the intricacies of barroom romance in a NYC tavern.
“People are shit.”
Angel. 31, not waiting for a bus at Colfax Ave Bus Stop No. 131.
“Sure I drink a lot; but just look what it does for my social skills.”
Timothy, 37, being helped by three concerned young women after he regurgitated an evening’s worth of boilermakers outside Bisbano’s Pub, Lafayette, LA.
“I want all the booze in the world in this glass right now. All of it. Mix it up. I’ll drink every damn drop. Of course, I’m going to need a bigger glass.”
An ambitious yet pragmatic Tom H. wanting it all at the Lion’s Lair Lounge.
“You gonna to drink that slop or am I gonna to have to get all Miss Piggy on yo’ ass?”
Unidentified gangsta angling for his homeboy’s unfinished beer at the 15th St. Tavern.
“Give me another glass of wine, and pour it strong this time.”
Annie G., 24, attempting to squeeze booze from a turnip at the Streets of London Pub.
“Why would you wanna go home? That’s where your husband’s at.”
A would-be Lothario uses his sly logic to test the wedding vows of a not-so-young lady at Bar Bar.
“Okay, you got me. What the fuck is it?
Unnamed patron questioning the bartender’s unique way of making a margarita with vodka at the Aloha Lounge.
“Does that thing even work?”
“Shit, man, it’s still warm.”
Exchange between a New Orleans bartender and a crack cocaine enthusiast attempting to sell a George Foreman Grill of dubious origin.
“Come on barkeep, just give me a free one, then I’m outta here.”
Rob L. giving fair warning before reaching over the bar and stealing a bottle of Jagermeister from The Vine.
“You’re not drunk if you can lay on the floor without holding on.”
Scott Q. while desperately clawing at his living room carpet.
“Give me well scotch and top shelf water.”
Mary K. worrying about the wagon instead of the mule at Southpark Tavern.
“One of my personalities is a lady. Does that count?”
Roger S. probing for psychological loopholes in Mozart Lounge’s ladies night special.
“All right, which one of you bastards moved the floor?”
Spoken from the floor of the Double Down Saloon by an unnamed gentleman who refused help walking to the door.
“I’m drinking to get a hangover so I’ll have something to do during my day off tomorrow.”
Fred L. 44, drinking for the future at the Lion’s Lair.
“Behind every good man, there’s a bartender in front of him.”
Sheer genius overheard by William G. at The Library Bar, NYC.
“You evil fuckers! Oh, you got me this time. Back’s broke. Laying in my own piss. Oh, you got me now. My mama told me this would happen and I packed my bag and hit the road anyway. Ah, fuck it.”
Alabama Bill, 45, paralyzed by treachery and wine in the alley beside the Lion’s Lair, moments before his miraculous recovery.
“I’m Batman. Would you like that? Would you like to drink with Batman?”
L. Barca (or possibly Bruce Wayne) willing to share a bottle of Crown Royal at a party in San Francisco.
“Sure! What’s in it?”
Troy B.’s rather optimistic response to a bartender’s request of, “You wanna get the hell out of here?” at Club 404.
“Never throw out a man deep in his cups, cuz he might drown. Socrates said that. Just before the bastards drowned him.”
Unidentified patron playing fast and loose with history at Bushwackers Tavern.
“I’m not drunk. I have the flu. All this drinking lowered my germ immunity”
Adam M, 32, putting a medical spin on why he fell out of his chair at the High Street Speakeasy.
“I just escaped from detox. Can you drive me to a liquor store?”
Unknown woman, soliciting a ride from a perfect stranger at Speer and 8th Ave.
“Hey, I hear there’s free shots after midnight.”
Ulf, 40, at the Round Lounge, three days after the bar was shot up with an assault rifle at midnight.
“Will Kidnap Your Mother-in-Law For Beer Money.”
Sign held by unnamed wino at the corner of Colfax and Grant.
“Will Drink For Food.”
Sign held by a wino who wants it all, with minimum effort, at Speer and 8th.
“Pour me a Guinness, and I’ll have a PBR while it’s settling.”
Troy B., 40, multitasking his pints at Nallen’s Pub.
“You know what the difference between a lounge and bar is? About a dollar a drink.”
Heather B., 24, keeping it cheap and real at Bushwackers Bar.
“I hope I get gigantism so I can grip a forty the whole way around.”
Dave S., on the Modern Drunkard Bulletin Board.
“I’m not drunk. I have the flu. All this drinking lowered my germ immunity”
Adam M, 32, putting a medical spin on why he fell out of his chair at the High Street Speakeasy.
“Go ahead and unload on me, man. I’m pretty sure I’m blacked out right now and won’t remember nothing.”
An extremely loaded, yet intensely self-aware patron at the High Street Speakeasy.
“You’re hard to remember, but easy to forget.”
Trish C., 24, dishing out a sweet burn at the Lion’s Lair.
“How am I supposed to remember everyone’s name? There’s so many of them and so few of me.”
Trish C., 24, keeps them coming at the Lair.
“Whoa! You just fucking scared the hell out of me! Up to now I thought you were a statue.”
To which the bartender at Steve’s Lounge replied, “Naw, I was just petrified by your last big fat fifty-cent tip.”
“Hey, my ride’s here!”
Robin R., 45, upon spotting a police cruiser pulling up in front of the Wigwam Bar and Grill.
“For hardly any man dances when sober, unless he is insane. Nor does he dance while alone, nor at a respectable and moderate party. Dancing is the final phase of a wild party with fancy decorations and a multitude of delights.”
Marcus C. spewing undisputable truths at Caesar’s.
“I want four stupid fruity shots. Stupid and fruity as you can make ‘em. Your choice. And a Jack Daniels neat.”
Name unknown, attempting to rescue his forsaken masculinity four shots too late at the Bar Bar.
“I have to get outta my head on liquor at least once a week. If I didn’t, I’d still go out of my head. But I might not come back.”
Lilly B., age 27, letting herself out for a walk at the Streets of London.
“If drinking is so bad, why does it feel so good?”
Name unknown, posing the eternal question at Mozart’s Lounge.
“I never met a man’s bar tab I didn’t like.”
Shelly M., 33, updating Will Rogers at Streets of London.
“Man’s best friend, my ass.”
Tomas R., 49, drinking PBRs at the Cricket on the Hill after losing $200 at the dog track.
“Listen, you’re going to buy me a drink whether you like it or not. Accept it. Embrace it. Make it your byword. Can’t we just get this over with and move on with our goddamn lives?”
Patrick B., age unknown, accosting a perfect stranger at the Bar Bar.
“I don’t just want the hair of the dog. I want his liver too. Because I think the fucker ate mine.”
Dave B., 39, demanding full retribution at the Lion’s Lair.
“When the fuck did all the bartenders trade in their skills for tits? Did I miss a meeting?”
Jay R., 32, brooding over the plum brandy that found its way into his Manhattan at the Carousel Club.
“You ain’t that good looking to be that fucking stupid.”
Sam Tipton, 3/4 drunk and moving his head back and forth, trying get his target in focus at J.P. Henley’s Saloon.
“I’d tip you, but I need that money to get drunk.”
Unnamed patron vocalizing a very powerful subconscious desire for a very weak Jack and Coke at the Streets of London Pub.
“Grab hold me, boys! I’m about to rear up on my hind legs and take a bite outta the fuckin’ moon!”
Raymond L., 52, losing his composure but not his dreams at the Landmark Tavern.
“I was merely trying to appreciate the perspective of the snake.”
Unnamed patron at the Leisure Lounge, explaining why she was found laying under a pool table.
“There, how’d ya like that one? No? Well, here’s another for ya! That one gotcha, didn’t it! Right between the eyes! Ya hurting now? Good, because here comes another! That shook ya, didn’t it? Tell me it didn’t shake ya!”
Burt B. 65, beating up his liver with belts of well whiskey at the Congress Lounge.
“I got drunk on whiskey when I was ten and I got so sick I hated the even the smell of the stuff. I couldn’t even touch it until I was thirteen.”
Paco R., 39, reminiscing the The Streets of London Pub about his first drunk.
“Hey, fuck face, what happened to your fucked up face?” The eruditeTroy B., 39 winning over new enemies at the Lions Lair.
“I hide my vanity behind this pretty face.”
Tricia P, age refused, mixing her drinks (and her signals) at the Lair.
“Keep in mind that, after I do this shot, I may not be the same man you’ve come to love and trust so completely. In fact, you may consider chaining me to a sturdy radiator, if one is handy.”
Jack T., 28, giving fair warning prior to sinking a double shot of well tequila.
“That’s so tasty I’d drink it right back down if it were to come back up.”
Terry M., age unknown, reveling in the tastiness of the the mai tai cocktail at the Streets of London.
“Full moon tonight, fuckers! Watch out for me! Full moon tonight! Lock up your bar tabs and hide your beers!”
Nameless were-wino howling at passersby from the mouth of the alley at Colfax and Vine.
“That beer you’re drinking looks suspiciously simular to the one that was stolen from me two days ago.”
Sarah S., 25, looking to recover stolen goods at the Lair.
“Hey, you got any extra shots in that bottle?”
Mike K., attempting to squeeze good will and free whiskey from the bartender at the Streets of London Pub.
“You’d think if someone really wanted to be mayor, he’d buy a couple rounds for the, you know, potential voters. Because I vote. I vote like crazy.”
Jess T., trying to politic a round from the Wynkoop Brewery, which happens to be owned by Denver Mayoral candidate John Hickenlooper.
“Excuse me, sir, but I’d like to open a tab for the troops.”
A devious yet patriotic con man at Club 404.
“Night Train? Love the stuff. There’s a fight in every bottle.”
Ramon P., possessed of a bottle and the makings of conflict outside the Squire Lounge.
“Oh, I’m not a drunk. I’m a drank. As in, I just drank all my beer. But I’m willing to be a drunk if you buy me a drink.”
Joan B., playing with words and men’s emotions outside the Carioca Cafe.
“Come on, John, open up. I’ve got stuff to forget.”
Jimmy K., standing outside John’s Liquors, wearing a bathrobe and a watch that reads 8 a.m.
“Depression is just anger without enthusiasm. It’s an empty beer bottle with no one worth throwing it at.”
Norma M., her seething rage barely contained by apathy at the Cricket on the Hill.
“Is it okay to puke in the restroom? Not even in the toilet? I have to go outside? It’s fucking cold outside.”
Susy B., all messed up and nowhere to blow in the Squire Lounge.
“When I think about all the people out there that want to kill me, I’m just glad as hell I’m in here drinking with my friends. You are my friends, right?”
Ron T., attempting to separate the Cowboys from the Indians at the Streets of London Pub.
“I want a shot. Do you want a shot? What about you? Hey, you guys want a shot? You? Okay, that’s one, two, three, four, five shots of tequila. Awesome. This is going to be great. Now, who’s got some money, cuz I’m broker than a broke-dick dog.”
Nameless (and shameless) patron at the Lion’s Lair.
“Fuck those guys who ride around in limousines. Fuck them. Even if they got a bar in there, fuck them. How many bottles do you think that little bar has? Five? Maybe ten at the most. How many bottles we got here? A hundred at least. Fuck their little ten-bottle bar. I wouldn’t even want to ride in a limousine, unless I had somewhere important to go.”
Jay H., railing against the sham riches of the ruling class at Bushwackers Saloon.¸
“I once got so drunk I woke up in a tree. Which wasn’t so bad, except the tree was in a different state than I started in. I call that being ‘Cross-Country Tree-Climbin’ Drunk.’”
Roy B., drinking on the ground and in his home state (for now).
“I used to think of Heaven as a bar that was open all the time and everything was free, but now I think of it as a bar that won’t throw me out.”
Jimmy J., wrestling with his lowered expectations in the temporary paradise of the Squire Lounge.
“See that girl over there? I dated her for two months and now she won’t even look at me because I tried to give her cat some bourbon. Hey, Lucy! Hey, Lucy! How’s Whiskers? Is he out of AA yet?”
Joel R., gleefully taunting the ghosts of his past at the Carioca Cafe.
“Yeah, I just threw up too. Wanna get another
Charlie M., not letting a little regurgitation get in the way of the Beautiful Dream at the Streets of London Pub.
“Always remember what Winston Churchill said: ‘I have taken more out of alcohol than any bartender ever took away from me.’ Something like that.”
LuAnne W., living up to the spirit, if not the exact words, of England’s finest drunkard.
Patron: “I’ll have an extra dry Tanqueray martini on the rocks with a twist and when I can’t say it any more, don’t bring me any more.”
(5 drinks later)
Patron: “I’ll have a Tanqully moonton wit wockers.”
Bartender: “You can’t say it, so you can’t have one.”
Patron: “Okay, I’ll have a scotch and soda.”
Beating the system at Diamond Jim’s Club in Mendota Heights, Minnesota
“Every shot of whiskey I drink is like poison in Bin Laden’s eyes. And before I go home tonight, we’re both going to be blind as bats.”
Johnny K. at Lincoln’s Roadhouse, sticking it to the international terrorist network, one shot of Beam at a time.
“Look at all the those yuppies in there, drinking up all the good hooch, then slappin’ it on a gold card. Make’s ya wanna be commie, don’t it?
Rodney T., leering through Uptown Tavern’s window and seething with proletariat rage.
“Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach him how to fish and he’ll sit in the boat and drink all day.”
Earl P., practicing his fishing skills in the Squire.
“Thou shalt not kill anything less than a fifth.”
Billy F., walking into Scooter’s Liquors with murder is his heart.
“Let other mortals vainly wear,
A tedious life in anxious care;
Let the ambitious toil and think,
Let states or empires swim or sink;
My sole ambition is to drink.”
Mark M., getting all philosophical and ambitious over a gin and tonic at William’s Tavern.
“A well made Martini, correctly chilled and nicely served, has been more often my true friend than any two-legged creature.”
Monica F., hanging out with a good friend at the Lion’s Lair Lounge.
“If the hangover came before being drunk, drinking would be a virtue.”
Sammy B., preceding virtue with sin in the alley behind Walgreens.
“Alcohol is necessary so that a man can have a good opinion of himself, undisturbed by the facts.”
Finley D., reveling in a scotch and soda and a very high self-opinion at Swanky’s.
“You Yanks are a funny lot; you drink whiskey to keep them warm, then put some ice in it to keep it cool; you put some sugar in it to make it sweet, and then put a slice of lemon in it to make it sour. Then you say “Here’s to you” and drink it yourselves.”
Boris C., attempting the break the Great American Drinking Riddle over double neat vodkas at the Satire Lounge.
“Life is like a bad margarita with good tequila.”
Peter A., skipping the bad and sinking a shot of the good at the Lion’s Lair Lounge.
“When I drink, the part that feels dangerous and needy grows bright and strong and real. The part that covets love kicks into gear. The ‘yes’ grows louder than the ‘no.’”
Caroline K., saying yes, yes and yes to another round at the Squire Lounge.
“There are people who strictly deprive themselves of each and every eatable, drinkable, and smokeable which has in any way acquired a shady reputation. They pay this price for health. And health is all they get for it. How strange it is. It is like paying out your whole fortune for a cow that has gone dry.”
Sammy C. pontificating over a cigar and bourbon at the Streets of London Pub.
“Waking up hungover and snuggled up in bed with the boss’s 19-year-old daughter and having to walk out of the house past his surprised ass at the breakfast table doesn’t do wonders for your career.”
Duncan J., explaining why he has so much time to drink at William’s Tavern
“Alcohol is like love: the first kiss is magic, the second is intimate, the third is routine. After that you just take the girl’s clothes off.”
Raymond C., falling love all over again with his sixth rye at Ogden St. South.
“I love to drink and I love to sing. But most people like to hear me drink.”
Georgie B. giving the audience what it wants at the Carioca Cafe.
“Drinking when we’re not thirsty is one of the few things that separates us from the beasts.”
Beau T. at Swanky’s, getting more civilized by the minute.
“Being drunk doesn’t make me steal stuff. It makes me get caught.”
Sharon M. at the Lion’s Lair, drinking her first shot since being released from county jail.
“There ain’t no devil. That’s just me when I’m drunk.”
Patrick T. at Nallen’s Pub, twisting an old adage to his own diabolical purposes.
“I get loaded because it’s the only time I get to play with the monkey inside me. We all got one. And if we don’t play with him every now and then, he gets mad and tries to claw his way out.”
Roger “the Dodger” playing with his monkey at the Buffalo Rose.
“Drinking doesn’t affect my job. Hell, I have to get drunk just to get motivated to go to work.”
Juan R. enjoying the early riser/pre-work shot and beer special at the Carioca Cafe.
“You got any of those smart drinks? No? Give me a scotch then, I usually feel pretty smart after a couple of those.”
John T. at the Squire Lounge, about to get real smart.
“Vermouth is all we have left? It’s always the last asshole in line. I really hate that shit. Is there even alcohol in it? Really? Okay, give me the bottle.”
Pat B. at a disgracefully stocked after-hours party, stuck between an empty keg and a hard taste.
“She said I was an asshole because I’m drunk and my breath stinks. So I asked her to buy me a shot of peppermint schnapps so I’d be only half an asshole.”
Larry L., revealing his own brand of pragmatic romanticism at the Lion’s Lair Lounge.
“The secret of being a good drunk is not to try to hard. To me, it just comes naturally. You might even say it’s effortless.”
T-Bird Barry, calmly sipping while hipping up the amateurs in the alley next to the Lion’s Lair.
“Last night I dreamt you bought me a big bottle of wine. I’m sure it was you. Actually, it was more of a vision than a dream. A prophesy, really. Are you a religious man, sir?”
Malone, testing the faith and gullibility of a perfect stranger one block from Eighth Avenue Liquors.
“I don’t smoke filtered cigarettes for the same reason I don’t drink whiskey through a bar rag.”
Unnamed drinker at the Streets of London, smacking up his pack of Pall Mall straights.
“Can you pour me a Bass while I’m waiting for that Guinness?”
The patient, but not that patient, Tim K. at Nallen’s Pub, maximizing his beer drinking time.
“Thunderbird? I hate that shit. Pure piss. Why, do you have any?”
The tasteful but thirsty Johnny K., 45, lingering outside the Kentucky Inn.
“Drunk? You think I’m drunk? Just wait fifteen minutes and I’ll really show you drunk.”
Unnamed drunk at an after-hours speakeasy who oddly seemed surprised when the bouncers didn’t seem interested in waiting long enough to find out if his statement was true.
“Listen fucker! I’m Spider Man and you’re the Green Goblin. Hear me? So I guess you know what’s going to happen next!”
Chuck L., 23, at the Squire Lounge boldly and allegorically challenging his freshly arrived whiskey and coke.
“Drink up and be somebody.”
The sagacious Denver Joe at the Cricket on the Hill, every Monday Night.
“Every morning I have to a make a decision—smokes or drinks. Cigs or forties. I tell you, alcohol is saving me from lung cancer.”
Jay T., 24, expounding on the health benefits of hooch outside the Lion’s Lair.
“Hooking cans out of a dumpster ain’t as easy as it looks. Lotta amateurs out there. You gotta bend the clothes hangar just right and you gotta know where to look. I can just look at a dumpster and tell if there’s cans in there. None of these young guys can do that.”
Redwood, 44, musing on the fast fading art of can-hooking and dumpster diving behind John’s Liquors.
“Goddamnit, I should have learned to play the piano. I’ve never heard of a homeless piano player. Have you?”
Peter B., 39, figuring out why it all went wrong outside the Lion’s Lair.
“The great thing about keeping all your stuff in a shopping cart is you always know where all your stuff is at.”
Tilman B, 57, looking over this year’s new models in King Soopers parking lot.
“You have anything lighter than Coors Light? I have to drive home tonight.”
Unnamed drinker at the Cricket on the Hill, fearful of going crazy on calories.
“Work? Oh, I work. I only spare change on the the side. Like a hobby. When I do day labor they usually appoint me crew chief. I'm an executive. The line about being out of work is just part of my PR campaign. Just part of my logo.” J.R., explaining the the “Unemployed” portion of his ‘Unemployed Homeless Veteran' cardboard logo a block from IH
“Whoa! Look out for that cop, he’s a mean one. Hey, you got a quarter? I got to meet Johnny at a quarter of five. You got a quarter, man? I could use a quart of beer right about now. Sure you don’t have a quarter?”
Tom H., practicing the fine art of subliminal panhandling four blocks from Argonaut Liquors.
“OSAMA DOESN’T WANT ME TO DRINK.. Don’t let him win. Please give for freedom.”
Terry the Tramp’s patriotically defiant cardboard sign, corner of Speer and Washington.
“They won’t let me in there. ‘Cause I’m so nice to people. And I tip and drink so good. That’s why. And the time I hit that fucker with a mug, ‘cause he was eyeballing me. Don’t eyeball me and I’m the sweetest motherfucker around.”
Sweet Jerry, languishing in permanent exile outside the Squire Lounge.
“I tried that work thing and I just couldn’t get behind it. I mean, you go to work, you get off, you eat some awful meal, you watch some t.v., you go to bed, you wake up and then whole fucking thing stars over again. I mean, there’s just no end to it.”
Rolly, age 33, unemployed and loving it under a tree along Speer Ave.
“Detox isn’t as bad as everyone says. I make a game out of it. I pretend I’ve been captured by alien robots disguised as humans who are conducting experiments on me. And I just play along, pretending to not know what they’re up to. See, it can be fun.”
Jose P., age 40, evading the alien robots’ grasp three blocks from Hi-Lo Liquors.
“I don’t drink to escape or to forget or because I can’t handle real life. I drink because whiskey is the key that sets the monkey free.”
Daniel at the Lion’s Lair Lounge, getting an early start on the afternoon.
“My daddy drank, grand-daddy drank, my goddamn great grand-daddy drank, and I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to drop the ball now.”
James K., age 27, keeping the tradition alive and well three blocks from Paul’s Liquors.
“You evil fucker! Oh, you got me this time. Back’s broke. Laying in my own piss. Oh, you got me now. My mama told me this would happen and I packed my bag and hit the road anyway. Ah, fuck it.”
Alabama Bill, age 45, paralyzed by treachery and wine, moments before his miraculous recovery.
“Wine is my woman, my buddy is beer. Whiskey is my father and water is what I wear.”
Jack, age 26, a block from Paul’s Liquors, inspired to poetry by two 40s and an early morning rain.
“I used to be a millionaire, I lived on top of the Empire State Building. They called me Earl the Pearl. Then I got tired of all the attention.”
Earl, age 53, lounging on a downtown bench, explaining why he gave his riches for the wino way.
“I don’t need this . . . yes, sir, I’m getting up . . . I live over there . . . my sister fell down the stairs, hospital bull . . . no record, sir . . . can’t help a guy out . . . ah, who gives a shit, I just want to lay down.”
No name volunteered, startled from his midmorning nap behind a dumpster two blocks from Argonaut’s.
“Of course alcohol is good for you. I don’t need a doctor to tell me that. I mean, just look at me.”
Al, age 47, strolling down Broadway, weighing in at a strapping 255 lbs.
“Hooooooooooweeeeeeeeeeee! That’ll kill those worms!”
Preacher, age 50, taking his morning constitutional in the alley behind Wax Trax.