The haze didn't deter his stride and soon his elbows met the wooden bartop, his gaze captured the swirling bartender's curves, and his cigarette smoke smothered those he edged between in his entrance.
"Say, pal, would you mind passing me the ashtray? It is easier than a kidney stone."
Strange looks confronted him as the tray passed his way.
"This place smells like piss! Which way to the bar? Or can someone get a bartender over by yonder urinal?"
He heard it get quieter, confusion--wasn't he at the bar?--except for the jukebox which played any dumb Green Day song you want to conjure up for the mental picture.
"I heard that Atlanta is the traffic capital of the South, but I'll be damned if I can get to it to find out!"
A beer appeared before him and it was gone it 3 big bubbles followed by a shy burp. He motioned for another, and then noting the atmosphere, signaled for the check instead. It arrived promptly and nervous conversation started in smatterings around him again.
He signed his name and hollered "TOUGH CROWD! Last time I had this much trouble was when I covered Grateful Dead tunes at a Christian Youth Convention."
No one acknowledged him and he farted a long, silent one as he walked out of the unfriendly bar.
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