Bar Bet
by Bill Tope
Two men, crusty, salty
dudes at best, sat alone at a small round table
in the corner of the bar, glass schooners of beer
on the table before them.
"Hey, dude,"
rasped one of the pair, "I'll bet you can't
drink this whole bottle of Tabasco." He
grinned, showing gaps where teeth should have
been.
"Ten bucks says I can,"
dared the other man, wiping beer from his bearded
face with the back of his hand.
"Deal!" snapped
the first man.
Snatching the hot sauce
from the table, the second fellow twisted off the
tiny red cap and upended the bottle over his
gaping maw. The aperture of the bottle was small,
so he had to suck the contents from the vessel,
but at length he held up the drained bottle
victoriously.
"Hah!" he shouted.
"Boy, were you ever stupid to bet me,"
he crowed, rubbing his belly in obvious distress/
There was a twinkle in the
first man's eyes. "You're right," he
said, handing over the sawbuck. "I got no
sense at all."
Originally
published in “Little Old Lady Comedy”
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