RunningBum
Give me a museum and I'll fill it. (Picasso) Give me a forum ...
- Joined
- Jun 18, 2007
- Messages
- 13,262
An old man has moved to a small New England town to live with his daughter. On Friday, he goes down to the tavern, orders three shots, sits quietly at a corner table, downs them, and leaves. Next Friday, same thing. And each Friday thereafter, the man does the same thing, rarely saying a word to anyone.
Finally, curiosity gets the best of bar's regulars, and one of them goes to his table, practically demanding to know why he has the three shots each Friday.
"Ah, it goes back over 50 years," the man says. "I was in the Ardennes in the Battle of the Bulge, and spent a lot of time in a foxhole with my two buddies from my home town. One Friday, after an especially horrendous day of shelling, I decide to break open a bottle of whiskey I'd been saving, and I say: Joe, I'm going to have a drink on your behalf, in quiet celebrate of your still being with us; Fred, another drink for you; and one for me. Won't you two do the same for me, and for yourselves and each other?
"We survive another week, and for luck, we have another three swigs each. Well, we finally get out of there just as the bottle was about empty, and we make a pact that wherever we are, every Friday we'll each have a drink for ourselves and for each of the other two as long as we survive the war. And we survive! So we hold on to this tradition after the war. And by god, not only did we survive the war, but also sicknesses, divorces, accidents, and old age, and we're all three still alive today!
I'm getting a bit old, so I finally had to move her to stay with my daughter, but like we promised, we have these drinks wherever we are, whether we're together or apart. So that's why I'm here on this Friday, ordering these three shots: one for Joe, one for Fred, and one for me.
"It's kind of a personal thing with us though, so I hope you don't mind that I'll be drinking these alone."
The locals are delighted by this story, and even though they don't see much of him any other time, they always look forward to seeing him each Friday, and they respect his wishes to drink by himself.
Finally it happens. One Friday, the old GI comes in, and orders two shots. A hush falls over the bar as he takes his two drinks to his table. The regulars resume their conversations, but only in muted tones, stealing glances at the old man at the corner table. After a short while, that same patron goes over to the man's table, hat in hand, head bowed, and says, "The boys here at the bar asked me to pass along their condolences."
Lowering his voice a bit more, he moves a bit closer and says in an almost choked voice, "Tell me, sir--was it Joe, or was it Fred?"
The man looks up, startled, and realizes the purpose of the question. "Oh, no, that's not it at all! They're both fine! I just went to the doctor this week, and he said I have to stop drinking"
Nodding at the two glasses on the table, he smiles and says, "He didn't say nuthin' about Fred or Joe though!"
Finally, curiosity gets the best of bar's regulars, and one of them goes to his table, practically demanding to know why he has the three shots each Friday.
"Ah, it goes back over 50 years," the man says. "I was in the Ardennes in the Battle of the Bulge, and spent a lot of time in a foxhole with my two buddies from my home town. One Friday, after an especially horrendous day of shelling, I decide to break open a bottle of whiskey I'd been saving, and I say: Joe, I'm going to have a drink on your behalf, in quiet celebrate of your still being with us; Fred, another drink for you; and one for me. Won't you two do the same for me, and for yourselves and each other?
"We survive another week, and for luck, we have another three swigs each. Well, we finally get out of there just as the bottle was about empty, and we make a pact that wherever we are, every Friday we'll each have a drink for ourselves and for each of the other two as long as we survive the war. And we survive! So we hold on to this tradition after the war. And by god, not only did we survive the war, but also sicknesses, divorces, accidents, and old age, and we're all three still alive today!
I'm getting a bit old, so I finally had to move her to stay with my daughter, but like we promised, we have these drinks wherever we are, whether we're together or apart. So that's why I'm here on this Friday, ordering these three shots: one for Joe, one for Fred, and one for me.
"It's kind of a personal thing with us though, so I hope you don't mind that I'll be drinking these alone."
The locals are delighted by this story, and even though they don't see much of him any other time, they always look forward to seeing him each Friday, and they respect his wishes to drink by himself.
Finally it happens. One Friday, the old GI comes in, and orders two shots. A hush falls over the bar as he takes his two drinks to his table. The regulars resume their conversations, but only in muted tones, stealing glances at the old man at the corner table. After a short while, that same patron goes over to the man's table, hat in hand, head bowed, and says, "The boys here at the bar asked me to pass along their condolences."
Lowering his voice a bit more, he moves a bit closer and says in an almost choked voice, "Tell me, sir--was it Joe, or was it Fred?"
The man looks up, startled, and realizes the purpose of the question. "Oh, no, that's not it at all! They're both fine! I just went to the doctor this week, and he said I have to stop drinking"
Nodding at the two glasses on the table, he smiles and says, "He didn't say nuthin' about Fred or Joe though!"