A drunk walks into a pet store

. . . and leans heavily on the counter. "Gimmie a shot of Jim Beam," he slurs to the clerk.

"I, I'm sorry, sir," says the clerk, "you must be mistaken. This is a--"

"Goddamnit, I wanna (hic) drink, you can't tell me what mzmblrf kn izzenuf!" shouts the drunk, slamming his fist on the counter.

Blinking, the clerk reaches behind him, and hands the drunk a little brown turtle. "Please, sir; take this. I hope it will make you happy." The drunk stares at the turtle a moment, belches, and shuffles out, singing.

Next night the same thing happens: Drunk shambles into the pet store, orders a drink; clerk attempts to explain the incompatible nature of the establishment; incoherent shouting, etc. Thinking it might work again, the clerk hands the drunk another little brown turtle. The drunk gives a little grunt, nods, and lists irregularly out of the store.

Third night it happens again. This time the clerk's prepared. As the drunk stumbles up to the counter, the clerk raises his hand. "I'm so sorry, sir, I can't pour you a drink, but please accept this instead." Having sold the last turtle earlier in the day, he instead hands the drunk a tiny baby mouse.

The drunk stares at it for a moment. "Whassis?"

"It's a baby mouse. Keep it safe and warm and it will grow into a friend."

The drunk thinks about this, then puts the mouse down on the counter. "Don't wanna mouse," he says.
"Gimmie 'nother one of them roast beef sandwiches on a hard roll."