A stately gent finds himself too inebriated to operate his room key. A girl young enough to be his youngest kid's youngster comes to his rescue and helps him stagger into the room.
A guy walks into a go-go bar on three legs: two skin and bone, one a metal cane with a rubber safety pad. He lurches out almost draped over a girl many decades his younger. A minute later, the madame, who moves with nothing but careful deliberation, rushes out of the joint waving his cane.
Two guys walk into a bar. One is married, the other hasn't seen a naked woman in more than a year. And in the latter's world, that is a distinguishing characteristic of bachelorhood.
It's a girlie bar in the heart of a world-famous red light district, and it's the sixth they've been to.
They leave separately, one paying for the opportunity to walk out with an exotic beauty on his arm, the other with a bill for their drinks. All of their drinks, including the lady drinks that slid down almost as smoothly and quickly as the other hand reached the crotch.
Now, is it more appropriate to ask which is which or would the comedic effect of, “So why am I the one sitting in front of a computer” (which has far too many dirty overtones after an evening of go-go bar hopping) be sufficient?
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