Blame It On Drunk Tom

There’s this guy comes into the bar. 30’s, short, disheveled hair and clothes, always drunk. We call him Drunk Tom. He’s probably been kicked out of more bars than anyone I know in Des Moines. I’ve kicked him out, over the last six years, at least 20 times.

I’m not exaggerating.

There’s something about him I like, though. He’s a “nice guy.”  I suppose he’s pretty harmless, but I know he’s had at least three DUI’s. I don’t think he drives anymore, so that’s good. He has his own personal cab driver, who I’ve met on a number of occasions.

He walks in tonight, drunk. But, see, he’s always drunk. I’ve only seen him sober one time in the 6 years I’ve known him. One time.

He comes up to the bar, sits down. Fortunately for him, I had just farted right before he sits down. I grab my towel, start wafting it towards him.

I guess he’s like the younger always drunk brother I never had.

He says, oh…that’s nasty!  I don’t disagree with him. He sits there, smelling it. What can I get you Tom? He thinks for a second, then another second, then another second, then says, a beer. I go get him a Heineken, it really doesn’t matter. He rummages around in his pocket, throws down a crumpled five dollar bill, I get him his dollar change, he shoves it in his pocket, leaves.

Ten seconds later, two guys come up, same spot, says, ewww. Clint. Did you shit your pants? I say, no. It wasn’t me. It was the guy that was just here.

Drunk Tom.

-Clint Curtis


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