Overheard at a Bar

There's always some good bar stories if you listen long enough and you go to the right bar. I did both recently. Here is what I heard.



"See Ted over there. Me and him got DWIs together," said the old man with the cowboy hat and the Sam Elliot mustache. His boots were tucked solidly into his faded work jeans. I didn't look, but his horse might have been parked at the curb just outside the door.

"Sho did," Ted said back.

"I had a jury trial and I beat mine," the cowboy continued. "Ted didn't have a jury trial and he beat his."

The cowboy was telling this story to try and impressed two middle-aged female smokers plopped on the bar stools next to him. Ted continued.

"The officer asked me if I had anything to drink," Ted said. "I told him, 'just orange juice.' I didn't tell him it was mixed with vodka. And I had 23."

The ladies focused on their Marlboro reds. Ted and the cowboy went home alone. Drunk. But safe.


A little while later ...


Another man was telling me a story that happened at a trade show he attended in Fort Worth a few years ago. He was the only representative from his company, so he splurged and got a room at a fancy hotel near the convention center.

One day, he said, after the trade show, he was sitting in the hotel watering hole having a drink. He kept noticing men walking around with tiny radios inserted in their ear. Security personnel he was sure.

He kept asking if anybody knew what was going on. He was told, "We have a VIP staying in the hotel."

"Who?" he would ask. The staff was mum.

So, the man went to town and found a different watering hole, one with women who didn't need answers or security personnel or a reason to have a one-night stand. He found one such woman and began playing tonsil hockey.

The strangers were getting along nicely when it came time for last call. The lights came on. The lady excused herself to the bathroom. And disappeared.

"She was gone," he said. "I went home horny."

When he got back to the hotel, he thought it might be a good idea to call a … how do you say it … a hooker.

"It was my first time to ever call one," he assured me.

"Sure it was," I said.

"I'm serious."

He called one of the numbers from the Yellow Pages and asked for a girl to be sent over. He wasn't picky. Any little number would do.

It wasn't long before he got a text. "On my way." Although he didn't recognize the number, he knew.

To kill some time until his "date" arrived, he stood looking at the window onto the vast parking lot. A car pulled through and just as quickly exited. The car pulled through again. Slowed down in front of the door, then quickly sped away for good.

"I got another text," he said. "'Sorry, but too many cops' was all it said."

He gave up, took a cold shower, and went to bed.

The next morning during breakfast, the commotion and slowed down and the man asked who the VIP was the previous day.

"Barbara Bush stayed here last night," the waiter said.

"THE Barbara Bush?" the man asked.

"Yep, she was visiting a school here in Fort Worth."

"So all those suits running around with radios in their ears—"

"Secret Service," I guessed.

"Yep," he said, pausing to take a slow sip of his rum and Diet Coke. "I got cock blocked by the First Lady."