H
Hal
A guy walks into the bar by himself and orders two Guinness stouts. The bartender looks at him curiously. “One Guinness is for me,” the man explains, “the other for my poor, sickly brother back in the old country. He’s barely hanging on.” The bartender shrugs and pours the stouts. This goes on for most of the night and the next night and the one after that.
After about a week of drinking two stouts at a time, one for him, one for his sickly brother, the man comes into the bar looking particularly downhearted and orders just one Guinness. “It’s your brother, isn’t it?” the barman says solemnly. “Nothing wrong with him,” the man shrugs. “It’s me who’s given up the drink.”
After about a week of drinking two stouts at a time, one for him, one for his sickly brother, the man comes into the bar looking particularly downhearted and orders just one Guinness. “It’s your brother, isn’t it?” the barman says solemnly. “Nothing wrong with him,” the man shrugs. “It’s me who’s given up the drink.”