An open bar is a source of great power that can be used for evil good or evil. When wine and whiskey flow like water into the gaping mouths of your friends and family, it can be a catalyst for warmth, love, and sharing -- or chaos, vomit, and nudity. When you invited me, you should've known right away what was going to happen.
Slow-Finger Joe knew what I was the moment he saw me.
I first approached your open bar with the fearful anticipation of a caveman paying homage to a mystical black space totem. Would it approve of me? Would I be accepted into its graces? How long could I keep it together so they would keep giving me Scotch? "Yes to all of those questions, even that last one, which can't technically be answered with a yes," the bartender's deep blue eyes told me. Then his mouth told me the same thing, with words. Then he slowly poured me a glass of cool and smoky Lagavulin, delicately adding just a single drop of fresh spring water to activate the flavor, all the while exuding the kind of patient expertise you expect from a bartender who calls himself Slow-Finger Joe. I drank deeply of that ancient Scottish elixir, turned to my left, and punched the nearest stranger in the face.
Luckily, I'm pretty bad at anything involving physical movement.