An Irishman walks into a bar in London one lunchtime
and orders three pints of Guinness. He takes
them off to a table and starts drinking them,
a sip at a time from each in sequence. It’s unusual
but the barman’s busy and doesn’t ask. But the next
day the Irishman comes back at lunch and does the
same thing. And this goes on for a week before the
*barman eventually asks, “So, what’s with the three pints?”
The Irishman replies, “Simple. I have a brother back
home in Dublin and another in New York, and we all
promised we’d drink like this, as a way of staying
close and keeping each other in mind, y’know.”
Which satisfies the barman. Anyway, the days
become weeks and months, the Irishman becomes
a regular, everyone knows and loves him. The ritual
becomes a part of the pub’s folklore.
One lunchtime, the Irishman comes in and
orders two pints of Guinness.
Silence descends on the pub as the Irishman takes
his pints to his table. The barman, awkward as all
hell but feeling like he has to say something, comes
over to the Irishman and says, “Er, listen, Paddy,
I just wanted to say I – well, we – we’re all so
sorry for your loss, and, er, if there’s anything we
can, er, we can do to, y’know, help or anything…”
The Irishman looks up at the barman, his face
a mask of incomprehension – until suddenly,
understanding hits him and he starts laughing.
“What? You thought – aw c’mon man, it’s
nothing like that! I just quit drinking!”