Old Man Sugarfoot
At FUBAR’s bar on the Redneck Riviera, I ordered up.
“I’ll have a sarsaparilla with a dash of cherry.”
The young redhead tending bar gave me a look, “Who are you?”
“I’m Sugarfoot, Ma’am.” (Removing my hat)
(I could’ve said, “Will Rogers, Jr., Slim Pickens, or Sheb Wooley.”
She’d a remained clueless.)
I responded to her saucy look by asking,
“What’s your darkest beer?”
She said, “Shiner Bock. But try this instead.”
She put a glass of white-capped, watery, light-gold liquid on the bar.
I looked at Yolonda, then at the drink, at the bar tender, and back at the drink.
“Is this beer?” I asked.
With a catty smile and in a demanding tone, “Drink up old man.”
I downed the grog and slammed my glass back on the bar.
(I don’t know why men do such foolish things.)
She gave me a minute, then, “Well? What do you think, Mr. Foot?”
With my most honest, I been trick-fucked again look, I replied,
“Ma’am, I think your horse is diabetic.”
She cut me off, so we left.
Giggling as we walked out, Yolonda said, “You’re such a funny old fool. I’ll drive.”
Look both ways and across the bar. Mind the gaps and opinions of bartenders.
(Note: FUBAR is acronym for fucked up beyond all reason.)