He likes the place very well. He gets to know all the other regular patrons and the bar begins to feel like home to him. It becomes a place of refuge. He came in every Friday and Saturday night.
But one Friday he doesn't show up, and neither does he show up the following day. His friends get worried.
Next week comes and he also doesn't show. People are becoming alarmed but since no one had his contact information there was nothing they could do.
Several months passed and the Irish man had become a happy memory and somewhat of a mystery.
Suddenly one Friday, he steps in. Everyone's jaws drop like they had seen a ghost. The entire place is silent as he reaches his regular stool.
The bartender asks, "What will you have?"
"Just a Sprite", he responds.
Everyone is shocked. This guy would get shitfaced every weekend, he could drink more than anyone who had ever been to the bar.
"But you usually start off with a bit of vodka, what's the matter?", demanded the bartender.
Irish man replies, "Well you see, last time I was here I drank so much I don't even remember how much I drank. What I do remember is that once I got home I blew chunks all over the driveway. Then I stumbled in my living room and blew chunks on the carpet. I dragged myself to the restroom and I blew chucks in the tub. I finally made it to my bedroom and I blew chunks until I fell asleep. I won't drink no more after that."
"Well so fucking what!?", exclaimed the bartender, "We've all vomited our hearts out every once in a while, it's no big deal!!"
"You don't understand mate, chunks is the name of my dog."
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