Bawston the Cat has not received any gifts yet
What? What? So there's this kid who used to come to my pub like 3 or 4 years ago. He came in like four or five times a week - kind of a regular. He's alright enough, I guess, sort of an odd duck, y'know - but who cares? He makes up this thing called Marty's Sock Puppet Portraits, and somehow I'm suddenly a part of it. Awesome. Whatever. Go Pats. Buy em up on Etsy.
I got a song I guess:
>Get Outta My Bar Go Sox
Listen, you can quiet down, then you can shut it, and when you're done you can zip it, and then you can tell your buddies how nice my pub is. Cuz you know it is. You got somethin else to say? Tell it it to the bottle that just veered past your sloping cranium. Then say it outside. As a matter of fact - sing it. Down the block. Past the Dunkies and the ATM and then past the other Dunkies and the other ATM next to where, ah, Sam Adams fought the Viking-Pilgrim-Founding Fathers, there's a jar for your tears. Do your best to cry me a river, kid.
Anyways, yeah, sometimes I'm workin at the bar, between tellin people to quiet down and making them excellent beverages and then telling them to get out I make up songs on my harmonica. I dunno. Whatever. Go Sox, kid. Go Sox.
Ah, while I have recently been considering a staunch variety of vastly important chamber musicians and the like, I'm thinkin that for a while it's just gonna be me. I might drum on your wicked huge melon as it sinks towards my immaculately maintained bar top. Back in the day I woulda thrown down a song with Nomar or Pedro, but my heart's been broken too many times. Ah, Nomar.
Ha. Ah, man, what is this? I dunno. The Sox. And um, this bar. That I never leave. This bar that I never leave is my greatest influence. Aw, man, I can't even believe that came outta me. Great, now I'm wicked depressed. Is polishing glasses, cleaning filth, and listening to nonsense spew outta people's mouths an influence? I can't really remember the select three tracks on my jukebox that AREN'T complete garbage, so forget it.
Can you possibly begin to understand how difficult it is to be taken as a respectable bartender when you have to excuse yourself to pee in some sand every 30 minutes and you lose your $%*!% every time somebody shines one of those little laser things on the bar? I swear, I will murder the next person who tries it.
I read a bunch, I guess, and that's some sort of an influence - y'know, like Murakami, Dawkins, Salinger, McEwan, crud like that. And the Herald.
Yeah, this is just too much. I dunno. It sounds like your mom, if she was a cat who was a bartender who played the harmonica and sang about the Sox. Am I right? You know I'm right. Now get yourself to Dunkies, get me a medium regular, and don't say a word until 7pm. I'll time you.