Friday, August 22, 2008
The right word in the right place
Bog-Irish Mick, barlord of Murphy's bog-standard Irish bar is not well. He keeps sneezing, then handling food and drink without washing his hands. After the third or fourth instance in the space of ten minutes, one of the less long-standing customers slaps a nasty official-looking piece of paper on the icky, sticky bar counter and speaks thusly:
"Public health and safety inspector. I'd like to see your hygiene license, please."
Mick already has a layer of cold sweat, courtesy of the chicken flu. His cold sweat redoubles, however, and he knows that the long-dreaded day has come at last. What he needs now is an excuse. A good excuse.
"Er, a rat ate it."
The look on the public official's face tells him that his excuse couldn't have been worse.
***
Disclaimer: the above didn't really happen. Murphy's is perfectly safe and it has a free pool table.
"Public health and safety inspector. I'd like to see your hygiene license, please."
Mick already has a layer of cold sweat, courtesy of the chicken flu. His cold sweat redoubles, however, and he knows that the long-dreaded day has come at last. What he needs now is an excuse. A good excuse.
"Er, a rat ate it."
The look on the public official's face tells him that his excuse couldn't have been worse.
***
Disclaimer: the above didn't really happen. Murphy's is perfectly safe and it has a free pool table.
Labels: TALES
