Organ Trail

A man walked into a bar — which was a miracle, really, because he had no legs. He’d lost them in the war, to a card sharp named Louie, whose Full House beat a Straight. “Best two out of three?” the man asked, hoping to recoup his missing limbs. “No, thanks,” Louie replied, “I wouldn’t know what to do with a third leg.” Back at the bar, the man stopped having flashbacks and ordered a gin and tonic; he received a screwdriver instead, because the mixologist was new and was wearing a tool belt. Also, the man had no tongue — he’d lost it in the sofa cushions while looking for his nipples — so enunciation wasn’t his strong suit. (Coincidentally, neither was a Straight. *See previous joke.) The man would have swallowed the screwdriver anyway — without taste buds, he could never tell the difference between alcoholic beverages and simple machinery — but unfortunately he had left his throat on the nightstand, along with his fingers, one kidney and a copy of Doctor Zhivago, which he hadn’t finished reading, because his eyes were still on vacation in Morocco. “Care for another?” the mixologist asked absentmindedly. “No, thank you,” the man gurgled, shaking the head he didn’t have.  “It’s just as well,” the mixologist said, “I’ve only got a pipe wrench left.” The man slumped the shoulders he would have had, if not for the sweepstakes scam, and re-positioned the ass he couldn’t sit on. “I don’t usually drink this early in the morning,” he confessed, “but my life is falling apart, you see, what with my lungs getting divorced and all.” “That’s heartbreaking,” the mixologist replied, apropos of nothing, as she couldn’t hear him. Moments later, for storytelling purposes, the man’s heart did break; in fact, it shattered into a million pieces. (Inexplicably, his brain, pelvis and what was left of his skeletal system, i.e. a femur, shattered, too; however, they didn’t carry any poetic resonance and were therefore disregarded, once again for storytelling purposes.) “Clean up on Aisle 7!” the mixologist announced, dripping with self-awareness and cardiac residue. Grabbing a mop, she couldn’t help but think, This hardware store has the weirdest cocktail hours…

© 2014 Tony Vicory.

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