Lesser Poland Puns

It started in a bar on a trip to Poland.

I was imbibing.

On my own, as the bar was already thinning out and I was already feeling it. God, what time was it? Maybe two in the morning. Although if there's one thing I've learned in my years of debauched drunkenness it's that a bar is never truly empty, which means you're never really alone, because there's always the bartender. The bartender is your friend.

"Hey you. Yes you. You buy or no? If you no buy you leave home, OK? You don't sleep in bar, OK?"

I nodded. "Another vodka please."

A bartender in Poland is always your friend. If you keep paying, he'll keep serving. Just don't pass out, or puke, or try to flirt with him.

My phone kept vibrating in my pocket. It was annoying, but I'd promised my friend Cormac (not his real name—but shout out if you're reading this, buddy!) that I would keep my phone on at all times. It's a work trip. Don't worry about it, I'd said. I also promised him I wouldn't drink. Yet you can't keep all your promises and still call yourself a mensch. That's what he was messaging me about: my drinking "problem". It's a work trip. Don't worry about it.

The bartender set the vodka glass down hard in front of me, waking me up. "Thank you kindly, sir," I said, and enquired how much I owed him.

His answer really woke me up.

"How much?"

My phone vibrated.

I took it out and carefully looked at the screen, which was filled with messages like: "answer me you alcoholic cunt", "you alive?" and "you're a degenerate, you know that".

I put the phone on the bar and started going through the złoty in my pockets.

It was hard, so I took a break and downed the vodka.

"Another, please. For my math skills."

"Go home OK."

"Not OK."

The bartender shook his head, no doubt tired from putting up with English tourists all day, and left me alone. But he didn't bring me another drink. Finally, I left some money on the bar, everything I had on me, and swam to my feet. Leaning on the bar, I bid him a good night and wished him a happy and prosperous life with a fine woman and many healthy children.

"I call you taxi," he said.

"Afraid not," I said, pointing at the money on the bar. "I'm broke. No more pieniadze."

He muttered something under his breath which made two of the remaining patrons chuckle. My phone vibrated. Swaying, I made my way to the exit and passed into the street.

Sweet nighttime! With its cold air like a helpful slap to a drunken face. Perk up, motherfucker! The medieval atmo

https://youtu.be/rfiqLwj9MtU

It started in a bar on a trip to Poland.

I was imbibing.

On my own, as the bar was already thinning out and I was already feeling it. God, what time was it? Maybe two in the morning. Although if there's one thing I've learned in my years of debauched drunkenness it's that a bar is never truly empty, which means you're never really alone, because there's always the bartender. The bartender is your friend.

"Hey you. Yes you. You buy or no? If you no buy you leave home, OK? You don't sleep in bar, OK?"

I nodded. "Another vodka please."

A bartender in Poland is always your friend. If you keep paying, he'll keep serving. Just don't pass out, or puke, or try to flirt with him.

My phone kept vibrating in my pocket. It was annoying, but I'd promised my friend Cormac (not his real name—but shout out if you're reading this, buddy!) that I would keep my phone on at all times. It's a work trip. Don't worry about it, I'd said. I also promised him I wouldn't drink. Yet you can't keep all your promises and still call yourself a mensch. That's what he was messaging me about: my drinking "problem". It's a work trip. Don't worry about it.

The bartender set the vodka glass down hard in front of me, waking me up. "Thank you kindly, sir," I said, and enquired how much I owed him.

His answer really woke me up.

"How much?"

My phone vibrated.

I took it out and carefully looked at the screen, which was filled with messages like: "answer me you alcoholic cunt", "you alive?" and "you're a degenerate, you know that".

I put the phone on the bar and started going through the złoty in my pockets.

It was hard, so I took a break and downed the vodka.

"Another, please. For my math skills."

"Go home OK."

"Not OK."

The bartender shook his head, no doubt tired from putting up with English tourists all day, and left me alone. But he didn't bring me another drink. Finally, I left some money on the bar, everything I had on me, and swam to my feet. Leaning on the bar, I bid him a good night and wished him a happy and prosperous life with a fine woman and many healthy children.

"I call you taxi," he said.

"Afraid not," I said, pointing at the money on the bar. "I'm broke. No more pieniadze."

He muttered something under his breath which made two of the remaining patrons chuckle. My phone vibrated. Swaying, I made my way to the exit and passed into the street.

Sweet nighttime! With its cold air like a helpful slap to a drunken face. Perk up, motherfucker! The medieval atmo

It started in a bar on a trip to Poland.

I was imbibing.

On my own, as the bar was already thinning out and I was already feeling it. God, what time was it? Maybe two in the morning. Although if there's one thing I've learned in my years of debauched drunkenness it's that a bar is never truly empty, which means you're never really alone, because there's always the bartender. The bartender is your friend.

"Hey you. Yes you. You buy or no? If you no buy you leave home, OK? You don't sleep in bar, OK?"

I nodded. "Another vodka please."

A bartender in Poland is always your friend. If you keep paying, he'll keep serving. Just don't pass out, or puke, or try to flirt with him.

My phone kept vibrating in my pocket. It was annoying, but I'd promised my friend Cormac (not his real name—but shout out if you're reading this, buddy!) that I would keep my phone on at all times. It's a work trip. Don't worry about it, I'd said. I also promised him I wouldn't drink. Yet you can't keep all your promises and still call yourself a mensch. That's what he was messaging me about: my drinking "problem". It's a work trip. Don't worry about it.

The bartender set the vodka glass down hard in front of me, waking me up. "Thank you kindly, sir," I said, and enquired how much I owed him.

His answer really woke me up.

"How much?"

My phone vibrated.

I took it out and carefully looked at the screen, which was filled with messages like: "answer me you alcoholic cunt", "you alive?" and "you're a degenerate, you know that".

I put the phone on the bar and started going through the złoty in my pockets.

It was hard, so I took a break and downed the vodka.

"Another, please. For my math skills."

"Go home OK."

"Not OK."

The bartender shook his head, no doubt tired from putting up with English tourists all day, and left me alone. But he didn't bring me another drink. Finally, I left some money on the bar, everything I had on me, and swam to my feet. Leaning on the bar, I bid him a good night and wished him a happy and prosperous life with a fine woman and many healthy children.

"I call you taxi," he said.

"Afraid not," I said, pointing at the money on the bar. "I'm broke. No more pieniadze."

He muttered something under his breath which made two of the remaining patrons chuckle. My phone vibrated. Swaying, I made my way to the exit and passed into the street.

Sweet nighttime! With its cold air like a helpful slap to a drunken face. Perk up, motherfucker! The medieval atmo

It started in a bar on a trip to Poland.

I was imbibing.

On my own, as the bar was already thinning out and I was already feeling it. God, what time was it? Maybe two in the morning. Although if there's one thing I've learned in my years of debauched drunkenness it's that a bar is never truly empty, which means you're never really alone, because there's always the bartender. The bartender is your friend.

"Hey you. Yes you. You buy or no? If you no buy you leave home, OK? You don't sleep in bar, OK?"

I nodded. "Another vodka please."

A bartender in Poland is always your friend. If you keep paying, he'll keep serving. Just don't pass out, or puke, or try to flirt with him.

My phone kept vibrating in my pocket. It was annoying, but I'd promised my friend Cormac (not his real name—but shout out if you're reading this, buddy!) that I would keep my phone on at all times. It's a work trip. Don't worry about it, I'd said. I also promised him I wouldn't drink. Yet you can't keep all your promises and still call yourself a mensch. That's what he was messaging me about: my drinking "problem". It's a work trip. Don't worry about it.

The bartender set the vodka glass down hard in front of me, waking me up. "Thank you kindly, sir," I said, and enquired how much I owed him.

His answer really woke me up.

"How much?"

My phone vibrated.

I took it out and carefully looked at the screen, which was filled with messages like: "answer me you alcoholic cunt", "you alive?" and "you're a degenerate, you know that".

I put the phone on the bar and started going through the złoty in my pockets.

It was hard, so I took a break and downed the vodka.

"Another, please. For my math skills."

"Go home OK."

"Not OK."

The bartender shook his head, no doubt tired from putting up with English tourists all day, and left me alone. But he didn't bring me another drink. Finally, I left some money on the bar, everything I had on me, and swam to my feet. Leaning on the bar, I bid him a good night and wished him a happy and prosperous life with a fine woman and many healthy children.

"I call you taxi," he said.

"Afraid not," I said, pointing at the money on the bar. "I'm broke. No more pieniadze."

He muttered something under his breath which made two of the remaining patrons chuckle. My phone vibrated. Swaying, I made my way to the exit and passed into the street.

Sweet nighttime! With its cold air like a helpful slap to a drunken face. Perk up, motherfucker! The medieval atmo

It started in a bar on a trip to Poland.

I was imbibing.

On my own, as the bar was already thinning out and I was already feeling it. God, what time was it? Maybe two in the morning. Although if there's one thing I've learned in my years of debauched drunkenness it's that a bar is never truly empty, which means you're never really alone, because there's always the bartender. The bartender is your friend.

"Hey you. Yes you. You buy or no? If you no buy you leave home, OK? You don't sleep in bar, OK?"

I nodded. "Another vodka please."

A bartender in Poland is always your friend. If you keep paying, he'll keep serving. Just don't pass out, or puke, or try to flirt with him.

My phone kept vibrating in my pocket. It was annoying, but I'd promised my friend Cormac (not his real name—but shout out if you're reading this, buddy!) that I would keep my phone on at all times. It's a work trip. Don't worry about it, I'd said. I also promised him I wouldn't drink. Yet you can't keep all your promises and still call yourself a mensch. That's what he was messaging me about: my drinking "problem". It's a work trip. Don't worry about it.

The bartender set the vodka glass down hard in front of me, waking me up. "Thank you kindly, sir," I said, and enquired how much I owed him.

His answer really woke me up.

"How much?"

My phone vibrated.

I took it out and carefully looked at the screen, which was filled with messages like: "answer me you alcoholic cunt", "you alive?" and "you're a degenerate, you know that".

I put the phone on the bar and started going through the złoty in my pockets.

It was hard, so I took a break and downed the vodka.

"Another, please. For my math skills."

"Go home OK."

"Not OK."

The bartender shook his head, no doubt tired from putting up with English tourists all day, and left me alone. But he didn't bring me another drink. Finally, I left some money on the bar, everything I had on me, and swam to my feet. Leaning on the bar, I bid him a good night and wished him a happy and prosperous life with a fine woman and many healthy children.

"I call you taxi," he said.

"Afraid not," I said, pointing at the money on the bar. "I'm broke. No more pieniadze."

He muttered something under his breath which made two of the remaining patrons chuckle. My phone vibrated. Swaying, I made my way to the exit and passed into the street.

Sweet nighttime! With its cold air like a helpful slap to a drunken face. Perk up, motherfucker! The medieval atmo

It started in a bar on a trip to Poland.

I was imbibing.

On my own, as the bar was already thinning out and I was already feeling it. God, what time was it? Maybe two in the morning. Although if there's one thing I've learned in my years of debauched drunkenness it's that a bar is never truly empty, which means you're never really alone, because there's always the bartender. The bartender is your friend.

"Hey you. Yes you. You buy or no? If you no buy you leave home, OK? You don't sleep in bar, OK?"

I nodded. "Another vodka please."

A bartender in Poland is always your friend. If you keep paying, he'll keep serving. Just don't pass out, or puke, or try to flirt with him.

My phone kept vibrating in my pocket. It was annoying, but I'd promised my friend Cormac (not his real name—but shout out if you're reading this, buddy!) that I would keep my phone on at all times. It's a work trip. Don't worry about it, I'd said. I also promised him I wouldn't drink. Yet you can't keep all your promises and still call yourself a mensch. That's what he was messaging me about: my drinking "problem". It's a work trip. Don't worry about it.

The bartender set the vodka glass down hard in front of me, waking me up. "Thank you kindly, sir," I said, and enquired how much I owed him.

His answer really woke me up.

"How much?"

My phone vibrated.

I took it out and carefully looked at the screen, which was filled with messages like: "answer me you alcoholic cunt", "you alive?" and "you're a degenerate, you know that".

I put the phone on the bar and started going through the złoty in my pockets.

It was hard, so I took a break and downed the vodka.

"Another, please. For my math skills."

"Go home OK."

"Not OK."

The bartender shook his head, no doubt tired from putting up with English tourists all day, and left me alone. But he didn't bring me another drink. Finally, I left some money on the bar, everything I had on me, and swam to my feet. Leaning on the bar, I bid him a good night and wished him a happy and prosperous life with a fine woman and many healthy children.

"I call you taxi," he said.

"Afraid not," I said, pointing at the money on the bar. "I'm broke. No more pieniadze."

He muttered something under his breath which made two of the remaining patrons chuckle. My phone vibrated. Swaying, I made my way to the exit and passed into the street.

Sweet nighttime! With its cold air like a helpful slap to a drunken face. Perk up, motherfucker! The medieval atmo

It started in a bar on a trip to Poland.

I was imbibing.

On my own, as the bar was already thinning out and I was already feeling it. God, what time was it? Maybe two in the morning. Although if there's one thing I've learned in my years of debauched drunkenness it's that a bar is never truly empty, which means you're never really alone, because there's always the bartender. The bartender is your friend.

"Hey you. Yes you. You buy or no? If you no buy you leave home, OK? You don't sleep in bar, OK?"

I nodded. "Another vodka please."

A bartender in Poland is always your friend. If you keep paying, he'll keep serving. Just don't pass out, or puke, or try to flirt with him.

My phone kept vibrating in my pocket. It was annoying, but I'd promised my friend Cormac (not his real name—but shout out if you're reading this, buddy!) that I would keep my phone on at all times. It's a work trip. Don't worry about it, I'd said. I also promised him I wouldn't drink. Yet you can't keep all your promises and still call yourself a mensch. That's what he was messaging me about: my drinking "problem". It's a work trip. Don't worry about it.

The bartender set the vodka glass down hard in front of me, waking me up. "Thank you kindly, sir," I said, and enquired how much I owed him.

His answer really woke me up.

"How much?"

My phone vibrated.

I took it out and carefully looked at the screen, which was filled with messages like: "answer me you alcoholic cunt", "you alive?" and "you're a degenerate, you know that".

I put the phone on the bar and started going through the złoty in my pockets.

It was hard, so I took a break and downed the vodka.

"Another, please. For my math skills."

"Go home OK."

"Not OK."

The bartender shook his head, no doubt tired from putting up with English tourists all day, and left me alone. But he didn't bring me another drink. Finally, I left some money on the bar, everything I had on me, and swam to my feet. Leaning on the bar, I bid him a good night and wished him a happy and prosperous life with a fine woman and many healthy children.

"I call you taxi," he said.

"Afraid not," I said, pointing at the money on the bar. "I'm broke. No more pieniadze."

He muttered something under his breath which made two of the remaining patrons chuckle. My phone vibrated. Swaying, I made my way to the exit and passed into the street.

Sweet nighttime! With its cold air like a helpful slap to a drunken face. Perk up, motherfucker! The medieval atmo

It started in a bar on a trip to Poland.

I was imbibing.

On my own, as the bar was already thinning out and I was already feeling it. God, what time was it? Maybe two in the morning. Although if there's one thing I've learned in my years of debauched drunkenness it's that a bar is never truly empty, which means you're never really alone, because there's always the bartender. The bartender is your friend.

"Hey you. Yes you. You buy or no? If you no buy you leave home, OK? You don't sleep in bar, OK?"

I nodded. "Another vodka please."

A bartender in Poland is always your friend. If you keep paying, he'll keep serving. Just don't pass out, or puke, or try to flirt with him.

My phone kept vibrating in my pocket. It was annoying, but I'd promised my friend Cormac (not his real name—but shout out if you're reading this, buddy!) that I would keep my phone on at all times. It's a work trip. Don't worry about it, I'd said. I also promised him I wouldn't drink. Yet you can't keep all your promises and still call yourself a mensch. That's what he was messaging me about: my drinking "problem". It's a work trip. Don't worry about it.

The bartender set the vodka glass down hard in front of me, waking me up. "Thank you kindly, sir," I said, and enquired how much I owed him.

His answer really woke me up.

"How much?"

My phone vibrated.

I took it out and carefully looked at the screen, which was filled with messages like: "answer me you alcoholic cunt", "you alive?" and "you're a degenerate, you know that".

I put the phone on the bar and started going through the złoty in my pockets.

It was hard, so I took a break and downed the vodka.

"Another, please. For my math skills."

"Go home OK."

"Not OK."

The bartender shook his head, no doubt tired from putting up with English tourists all day, and left me alone. But he didn't bring me another drink. Finally, I left some money on the bar, everything I had on me, and swam to my feet. Leaning on the bar, I bid him a good night and wished him a happy and prosperous life with a fine woman and many healthy children.

"I call you taxi," he said.

"Afraid not," I said, pointing at the money on the bar. "I'm broke. No more pieniadze."

He muttered something under his breath which made two of the remaining patrons chuckle. My phone vibrated. Swaying, I made my way to the exit and passed into the street.

Sweet nighttime! With its cold air like a helpful slap to a drunken face. Perk up, motherfucker! The medieval atmo

It started in a bar on a trip to Poland.

I was imbibing.

On my own, as the bar was already thinning out and I was already feeling it. God, what time was it? Maybe two in the morning. Although if there's one thing I've learned in my years of debauched drunkenness it's that a bar is never truly empty, which means you're never really alone, because there's always the bartender. The bartender is your friend.

"Hey you. Yes you. You buy or no? If you no buy you leave home, OK? You don't sleep in bar, OK?"

I nodded. "Another vodka please."

A bartender in Poland is always your friend. If you keep paying, he'll keep serving. Just don't pass out, or puke, or try to flirt with him.

My phone kept vibrating in my pocket. It was annoying, but I'd promised my friend Cormac (not his real name—but shout out if you're reading this, buddy!) that I would keep my phone on at all times. It's a work trip. Don't worry about it, I'd said. I also promised him I wouldn't drink. Yet you can't keep all your promises and still call yourself a mensch. That's what he was messaging me about: my drinking "problem". It's a work trip. Don't worry about it.

The bartender set the vodka glass down hard in front of me, waking me up. "Thank you kindly, sir," I said, and enquired how much I owed him.

His answer really woke me up.

"How much?"

My phone vibrated.

I took it out and carefully looked at the screen, which was filled with messages like: "answer me you alcoholic cunt", "you alive?" and "you're a degenerate, you know that".

I put the phone on the bar and started going through the złoty in my pockets.

It was hard, so I took a break and downed the vodka.

"Another, please. For my math skills."

"Go home OK."

"Not OK."

The bartender shook his head, no doubt tired from putting up with English tourists all day, and left me alone. But he didn't bring me another drink. Finally, I left some money on the bar, everything I had on me, and swam to my feet. Leaning on the bar, I bid him a good night and wished him a happy and prosperous life with a fine woman and many healthy children.

"I call you taxi," he said.

"Afraid not," I said, pointing at the money on the bar. "I'm broke. No more pieniadze."

He muttered something under his breath which made two of the remaining patrons chuckle. My phone vibrated. Swaying, I made my way to the exit and passed into the street.

Sweet nighttime! With its cold air like a helpful slap to a drunken face. Perk up, motherfucker! The medieval atmo

It started in a bar on a trip to Poland.

I was imbibing.

On my own, as the bar was already thinning out and I was already feeling it. God, what time was it? Maybe two in the morning. Although if there's one thing I've learned in my years of debauched drunkenness it's that a bar is never truly empty, which means you're never really alone, because there's always the bartender. The bartender is your friend.

"Hey you. Yes you. You buy or no? If you no buy you leave home, OK? You don't sleep in bar, OK?"

I nodded. "Another vodka please."

A bartender in Poland is always your friend. If you keep paying, he'll keep serving. Just don't pass out, or puke, or try to flirt with him.

My phone kept vibrating in my pocket. It was annoying, but I'd promised my friend Cormac (not his real name—but shout out if you're reading this, buddy!) that I would keep my phone on at all times. It's a work trip. Don't worry about it, I'd said. I also promised him I wouldn't drink. Yet you can't keep all your promises and still call yourself a mensch. That's what he was messaging me about: my drinking "problem". It's a work trip. Don't worry about it.

The bartender set the vodka glass down hard in front of me, waking me up. "Thank you kindly, sir," I said, and enquired how much I owed him.

His answer really woke me up.

"How much?"

My phone vibrated.

I took it out and carefully looked at the screen, which was filled with messages like: "answer me you alcoholic cunt", "you alive?" and "you're a degenerate, you know that".

I put the phone on the bar and started going through the złoty in my pockets.

It was hard, so I took a break and downed the vodka.

"Another, please. For my math skills."

"Go home OK."

"Not OK."

The bartender shook his head, no doubt tired from putting up with English tourists all day, and left me alone. But he didn't bring me another drink. Finally, I left some money on the bar, everything I had on me, and swam to my feet. Leaning on the bar, I bid him a good night and wished him a happy and prosperous life with a fine woman and many healthy children.

"I call you taxi," he said.

"Afraid not," I said, pointing at the money on the bar. "I'm broke. No more pieniadze."

He muttered something under his breath which made two of the remaining patrons chuckle. My phone vibrated. Swaying, I made my way to the exit and passed into the street.

Sweet nighttime! With its cold air like a helpful slap to a drunken face. Perk up, motherfucker! The medieval atmo

It started in a bar on a trip to Poland.

I was imbibing.

On my own, as the bar was already thinning out and I was already feeling it. God, what time was it? Maybe two in the morning. Although if there's one thing I've learned in my years of debauched drunkenness it's that a bar is never truly empty, which means you're never really alone, because there's always the bartender. The bartender is your friend.

"Hey you. Yes you. You buy or no? If you no buy you leave home, OK? You don't sleep in bar, OK?"

I nodded. "Another vodka please."

A bartender in Poland is always your friend. If you keep paying, he'll keep serving. Just don't pass out, or puke, or try to flirt with him.

My phone kept vibrating in my pocket. It was annoying, but I'd promised my friend Cormac (not his real name—but shout out if you're reading this, buddy!) that I would keep my phone on at all times. It's a work trip. Don't worry about it, I'd said. I also promised him I wouldn't drink. Yet you can't keep all your promises and still call yourself a mensch. That's what he was messaging me about: my drinking "problem". It's a work trip. Don't worry about it.

The bartender set the vodka glass down hard in front of me, waking me up. "Thank you kindly, sir," I said, and enquired how much I owed him.

His answer really woke me up.

"How much?"

My phone vibrated.

I took it out and carefully looked at the screen, which was filled with messages like: "answer me you alcoholic cunt", "you alive?" and "you're a degenerate, you know that".

I put the phone on the bar and started going through the złoty in my pockets.

It was hard, so I took a break and downed the vodka.

"Another, please. For my math skills."

"Go home OK."

"Not OK."

The bartender shook his head, no doubt tired from putting up with English tourists all day, and left me alone. But he didn't bring me another drink. Finally, I left some money on the bar, everything I had on me, and swam to my feet. Leaning on the bar, I bid him a good night and wished him a happy and prosperous life with a fine woman and many healthy children.

"I call you taxi," he said.

"Afraid not," I said, pointing at the money on the bar. "I'm broke. No more pieniadze."

He muttered something under his breath which made two of the remaining patrons chuckle. My phone vibrated. Swaying, I made my way to the exit and passed into the street.

Sweet nighttime! With its cold air like a helpful slap to a drunken face. Perk up, motherfucker! The medieval atmo