[Velvet]

I’m not drunk. I have the flu. All this drinking lowered my germ immunity”
Adam M, 32, putting a medical spin on why he fell out of his chair at the High Street Speakeasy.

“I just escaped from detox. Can you drive me to a liquor store?”
Unknown woman, soliciting a ride from a perfect stranger at Speer and 8th Ave.

“Hey, I hear there’s free shots after midnight.”
Ulf, 40, at the Round Lounge, three days after the bar was shot up with an assault rifle at midnight.

“Will Kidnap Your Mother-in-Law For Beer Money.”
Sign held by unnamed wino at the corner of Colfax and Grant.

“Will Drink For Food.”
Sign held by a wino who wants it all, with minimum effort, at Speer and 8th.

“Pour me a Guinness, and I’ll have a PBR while it’s settling.”
Troy B., 40, multitasking his pints at Nallen’s Pub.

“You know what the difference between a lounge and bar is? About a dollar a drink.”
Heather B., 24, keeping it cheap and real at Bushwackers Bar.

“I hope I get gigantism so I can grip a forty the whole way around.”
Dave S., on the Modern Drunkard Bulletin Board.

“I’m not drunk. I have the flu. All this drinking lowered my germ immunity”
Adam M, 32, putting a medical spin on why he fell out of his chair at the High Street Speakeasy.

“Go ahead and unload on me, man. I’m pretty sure I’m blacked out right now and won’t remember nothing.”
An extremely loaded, yet intensely self-aware patron at the High Street Speakeasy.

“You’re hard to remember, but easy to forget.”
Trish C., 24, dishing out a sweet burn at the Lion’s Lair.

“How am I supposed to remember everyone’s name? There’s so many of them and so few of me.”
Trish C., 24, keeps them coming at the Lair.

“Whoa! You just fucking scared the hell out of me! Up to now I thought you were a statue.”
To which the bartender at Steve’s Lounge replied, “Naw, I was just petrified by your last big fat fifty-cent tip.”

“Hey, my ride’s here!”
Robin R., 45, upon spotting a police cruiser pulling up in front of the Wigwam Bar and Grill.

“For hardly any man dances when sober, unless he is insane. Nor does he dance while alone, nor at a respectable and moderate party. Dancing is the final phase of a wild party with fancy decorations and a multitude of delights.”
Marcus C. spewing undisputable truths at Caesar’s.

"I want four stupid fruity shots. Stupid and fruity as you can make ‘em. Your choice. And a Jack Daniels neat.”
Name unknown, attempting to rescue his forsaken masculinity four shots too late at the Bar Bar.

“I have to get outta my head on liquor at least once a week. If I didn’t, I’d still go out of my head. But I might not come back.”
Lilly B., age 27, letting herself out for a walk at the Streets of London.

“If drinking is so bad, why does it feel so good?”
Name unknown, posing the eternal question at Mozart’s Lounge.

“I never met a man’s bar tab I didn’t like.”
Shelly M., 33, updating Will Rogers at Streets of London.

“Man’s best friend, my ass.”
Tomas R., 49, drinking PBRs at the Cricket on the Hill after losing $200 at the dog track.

“Listen, you’re going to buy me a drink whether you like it or not. Accept it. Embrace it. Make it your byword. Can’t we just get this over with and move on with our goddamn lives?”
Patrick B., age unknown, accosting a perfect stranger at the Bar Bar.

“I don’t just want the hair of the dog. I want his liver too. Because I think the fucker ate mine.”
Dave B., 39, demanding full retribution at the Lion’s Lair.

“When the fuck did all the bartenders trade in their skills for tits? Did I miss a meeting?”
Jay R., 32, brooding over the plum brandy that found its way into his Manhattan at the Carousel Club.

"You ain't that good looking to be that fucking stupid."
Sam Tipton, 3/4 drunk and moving his head back and forth, trying get his target in focus at J.P. Henley's Saloon.

“I’d tip you, but I need that money to get drunk.”
Unnamed patron vocalizing a very powerful subconscious desire for a very weak Jack and Coke at the Streets of London Pub.

“Grab hold me, boys! I’m about to rear up on my hind legs and take a bite outta the fuckin’ moon!”
Raymond L., 52, losing his composure but not his dreams at the Landmark Tavern.

“I was merely trying to appreciate the perspective of the snake.”
Unnamed patron at the Leisure Lounge, explaining why she was found laying under a pool table.

“There, how’d ya like that one? No? Well, here’s another for ya! That one gotcha, didn’t it! Right between the eyes! Ya hurting now? Good, because here comes another! That shook ya, didn’t it? Tell me it didn’t shake ya!”
Burt B. 65, beating up his liver with belts of well whiskey at the Congress Lounge.

“I got drunk on whiskey when I was ten and I got so sick I hated the even the smell of the stuff. I couldn’t even touch it until I was thirteen.”
Paco R., 39, reminiscing the The Streets of London Pub about his first drunk.

“Hey, fuck face, what happened to your fucked up face?” The erudite Troy B., 39 winning over new enemies at the Lions Lair.

“I hide my vanity behind this pretty face.”
Tricia P, age refused, mixing her drinks (and her signals) at the Lair.

“Keep in mind that, after I do this shot, I may not be the same man you’ve come to love and trust so completely. In fact, you may consider chaining me to a sturdy radiator, if one is handy.”
Jack T., 28, giving fair warning prior to sinking a double shot of well tequila.

“That’s so tasty I’d drink it right back down if it were to come back up.”
Terry M., age unknown, reveling in the tastiness of the the mai tai cocktail at the Streets of London.

“Full moon tonight, fuckers! Watch out for me! Full moon tonight! Lock up your bar tabs and hide your beers!”
Nameless were-wino howling at passersby from the mouth of the alley at Colfax and Vine.

“That beer you’re drinking looks suspiciously simular to the one that was stolen from me two days ago.”
Sarah S., 25, looking to recover stolen goods at the Lair.

“Hey, you got any extra shots in that bottle?”
Mike K., attempting to squeeze good will and free whiskey from the bartender at the Streets of London Pub.

“You’d think if someone really wanted to be mayor, he’d buy a couple rounds for the, you know, potential voters. Because I vote. I vote like crazy.”
Jess T., trying to politic a round from the Wynkoop Brewery, which happens to be owned by Denver Mayoral candidate John Hickenlooper.

“Excuse me, sir, but I’d like to open a tab for the troops.”
A devious yet patriotic con man at Club 404.

“Night Train? Love the stuff. There’s a fight in every bottle.”
Ramon P., possessed of a bottle and the makings of conflict outside the Squire Lounge.

“Oh, I’m not a drunk. I’m a drank. As in, I just drank all my beer. But I’m willing to be a drunk if you buy me a drink.”
Joan B., playing with words and men’s emotions outside the Carioca Cafe.

“Come on, John, open up. I’ve got stuff to forget.”
Jimmy K., standing outside John’s Liquors, wearing a bathrobe and a watch that reads 8 a.m.

“Depression is just anger without enthusiasm. It’s an empty beer bottle with no one worth throwing it at.”
Norma M., her seething rage barely contained by apathy at the Cricket on the Hill.

“Is it okay to puke in the restroom? Not even in the toilet? I have to go outside? It’s fucking cold outside."
Susy B., all messed up and nowhere to blow in the Squire Lounge.

“When I think about all the people out there that want to kill me, I’m just glad as hell I’m in here drinking with my friends. You are my friends, right?"
Ron T., attempting to separate the Cowboys from the Indians at the Streets of London Pub.

“I want a shot. Do you want a shot? What about you? Hey, you guys want a shot? You? Okay, that’s one, two, three, four, five shots of tequila. Awesome. This is going to be great. Now, who’s got some money, cuz I’m broker than a broke-dick dog.”
Nameless (and shameless) patron at the Lion’s Lair.

“Fuck those guys who ride around in limousines. Fuck them. Even if they got a bar in there, fuck them. How many bottles do you think that little bar has? Five? Maybe ten at the most. How many bottles we got here? A hundred at least. Fuck their little ten-bottle bar. I wouldn’t even want to ride in a limousine, unless I had somewhere important to go.”
Jay H., railing against the sham riches of the ruling class at Bushwackers Saloon.¸

“I once got so drunk I woke up in a tree. Which wasn’t so bad, except the tree was in a different state than I started in. I call that being ‘Cross-Country Tree-Climbin’ Drunk.’”
Roy B., drinking on the ground and in his home state (for now).

“I used to think of Heaven as a bar that was open all the time and everything was free, but now I think of it as a bar that won’t throw me out.”
Jimmy J., wrestling with his lowered expectations in the temporary paradise of the Squire Lounge.

“See that girl over there? I dated her for two months and now she won’t even look at me because I tried to give her cat some bourbon. Hey, Lucy! Hey, Lucy! How’s Whiskers? Is he out of AA yet?”
Joel R., gleefully taunting the ghosts of his past at the Carioca Cafe.

“Yeah, I just threw up too. Wanna get another
pitcher?”
Charlie M., not letting a little regurgitation get in the way of the Beautiful Dream at the Streets of London Pub.

“Always remember what Winston Churchill said: ‘I have taken more out of alcohol than any bartender ever took away from me.’ Something like that.”
LuAnne W., living up to the spirit, if not the exact words, of England’s finest drunkard.

Patron: “I’ll have an extra dry Tanqueray martini on the rocks with a twist and when I can’t say it any more, don’t bring me any more.”
(5 drinks later)
Patron: “I’ll have a Tanqully moonton wit wockers.”
Bartender: “You can’t say it, so you can’t have one.”
Patron: “Okay, I’ll have a scotch and soda.”
Beating the system at Diamond Jim’s Club in Mendota Heights, Minnesota

“Every shot of whiskey I drink is like poison in Bin Laden’s eyes. And before I go home tonight, we’re both going to be blind as bats.”
Johnny K. at Lincoln’s Roadhouse, sticking it to the international terrorist network, one shot of Beam at a time.

“Look at all the those yuppies in there, drinking up all the good hooch, then slappin’ it on a gold card. Make’s ya wanna be commie, don’t it?
Rodney T., leering through Uptown Tavern’s window and seething with proletariat rage.

“Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach him how to fish and he’ll sit in the boat and drink all day.”
Earl P., practicing his fishing skills in the Squire.

“Thou shalt not kill anything less than a fifth.”
Billy F., walking into Scooter’s Liquors with murder is his heart.

“Let other mortals vainly wear,
A tedious life in anxious care;
Let the ambitious toil and think,
Let states or empires swim or sink;
My sole ambition is to drink.”
Mark M., getting all philosophical and ambitious over a gin and tonic at William’s Tavern.

“A well made Martini, correctly chilled and nicely served, has been more often my true friend than any two-legged creature.”
Monica F., hanging out with a good friend at the Lion’s Lair Lounge.

“If the hangover came before being drunk, drinking would be a virtue.”
Sammy B., preceding virtue with sin in the alley behind Walgreens.

"Alcohol is necessary so that a man can have a good opinion of himself, undisturbed by the facts.”
Finley D., reveling in a scotch and soda and a very high self-opinion at Swanky’s.

"You Yanks are a funny lot; you drink whiskey to keep them warm, then put some ice in it to keep it cool; you put some sugar in it to make it sweet, and then put a slice of lemon in it to make it sour. Then you say “Here’s to you” and drink it yourselves.”
Boris C., attempting the break the Great American Drinking Riddle over double neat vodkas at the Satire Lounge.

“Life is like a bad margarita with good tequila.”
Peter A., skipping the bad and sinking a shot of the good at the Lion’s Lair Lounge.

“When I drink, the part that feels dangerous and needy grows bright and strong and real. The part that covets love kicks into gear. The ‘yes’ grows louder than the ‘no.’”
Caroline K., saying yes, yes and yes to another round at the Squire Lounge.

“There are people who strictly deprive themselves of each and every eatable, drinkable, and smokeable which has in any way acquired a shady reputation. They pay this price for health. And health is all they get for it. How strange it is. It is like paying out your whole fortune for a cow that has gone dry.”
Sammy C. pontificating over a cigar and bourbon at the Streets of London Pub.

“Waking up hungover and snuggled up in bed with the boss’s 19-year-old daughter and having to walk out of the house past his surprised ass at the breakfast table doesn’t do wonders for your career.”
Duncan J., explaining why he has so much time to drink at William’s Tavern

“Alcohol is like love: the first kiss is magic, the second is intimate, the third is routine. After that you just take the girl’s clothes off.”
Raymond C., falling love all over again with his sixth rye at Ogden St. South.

“I love to drink and I love to sing. But most people like to hear me drink.”
Georgie B. giving the audience what it wants at the Carioca Cafe.

“Drinking when we’re not thirsty is one of the few things that separates us from the beasts.”
Beau T. at Swanky’s, getting more civilized by the minute.

“Being drunk doesn’t make me steal stuff. It makes me get caught.”
Sharon M. at the Lion’s Lair, drinking her first shot since being released from county jail.

“There ain’t no devil. That’s just me when I’m drunk.”
Patrick T. at Nallen’s Pub, twisting an old adage to his own diabolical purposes.

“I get loaded because it’s the only time I get to play with the monkey inside me. We all got one. And if we don’t play with him every now and then, he gets mad and tries to claw his way out."
Roger “the Dodger” playing with his monkey at the Buffalo Rose.

“Drinking doesn’t affect my job. Hell, I have to get drunk just to get motivated to go to work.”
Juan R. enjoying the early riser/pre-work shot and beer special at the Carioca Cafe.

“You got any of those smart drinks? No? Give me a scotch then, I usually feel pretty smart after a couple of those.”
John T. at the Squire Lounge, about to get real smart.

“Vermouth is all we have left? It’s always the last asshole in line. I really hate that shit. Is there even alcohol in it? Really? Okay, give me the bottle.”
Pat B. at a disgracefully stocked after-hours party, stuck between an empty keg and a hard taste.

“She said I was an asshole because I’m drunk and my breath stinks. So I asked her to buy me a shot of peppermint schnapps so I’d be only half an asshole.”
Larry L., revealing his own brand of pragmatic romanticism at the Lion’s Lair Lounge.

“The secret of being a good drunk is not to try to hard. To me, it just comes naturally. You might even say it’s effortless.”
T-Bird Barry, calmly sipping while hipping up the amateurs in the alley next to the Lion’s Lair.

“Last night I dreamt you bought me a big bottle of wine. I’m sure it was you. Actually, it was more of a vision than a dream. A prophesy, really. Are you a religious man, sir?”
Malone, testing the faith and gullibility of a perfect stranger one block from Eighth Avenue Liquors.

“I don’t smoke filtered cigarettes for the same reason I don’t drink whiskey through a bar rag.”
Unnamed drinker at the Streets of London, smacking up his pack of Pall Mall straights.

“Can you pour me a Bass while I’m waiting for that Guinness?”
The patient, but not that patient, Tim K. at Nallen's Pub, maximizing his beer drinking time.

"Thunderbird? I hate that shit. Pure piss. Why, do you have any?"
The tasteful but thirsty Johnny K., 45, lingering outside the Kentucky Inn.

“Drunk? You think I’m drunk? Just wait fifteen minutes and I’ll really show you drunk.”
Unnamed drunk at an after-hours speakeasy who oddly seemed surprised when the bouncers didn’t seem interested in waiting long enough to find out if his statement was true.

“Listen fucker! I’m Spider Man and you’re the Green Goblin. Hear me? So I guess you know what’s going to happen next!”
Chuck L., 23, at the Squire Lounge boldly and allegorically challenging his freshly arrived whiskey and coke.

“Drink up and be somebody.”
The sagacious Denver Joe at the Cricket on the Hill, every Monday Night.

“Every morning I have to a make a decision—smokes or drinks. Cigs or forties. I tell you, alcohol is saving me from lung cancer.”
Jay T., 24, expounding on the health benefits of hooch outside the Lion’s Lair.

“Hooking cans out of a dumpster ain’t as easy as it looks. Lotta amateurs out there. You gotta bend the clothes hangar just right and you gotta know where to look. I can just look at a dumpster and tell if there’s cans in there. None of these young guys can do that.”
Redwood, 44, musing on the fast fading art of can-hooking and dumpster diving behind John’s Liquors.

“Goddamnit, I should have learned to play the piano. I’ve never heard of a homeless piano player. Have you?”
Peter B., 39, figuring out why it all went wrong outside the Lion’s Lair.

“The great thing about keeping all your stuff in a shopping cart is you always know where all your stuff is at.”
Tilman B, 57, looking over this year’s new models in King Soopers parking lot.

“You have anything lighter than Coors Light? I have to drive home tonight.”
Unnamed drinker at the Cricket on the Hill, fearful of going crazy on calories.

“Work? Oh, I work. I only spare change on the the side. Like a hobby. When I do day labor they usually appoint me crew chief. I’m an executive. The line about being out of work is just part of my PR campaign. Just part of my logo.” J.R., explaining the the “Unemployed” portion of his ‘Unemployed Homeless Veteran’ cardboard logo a block from IH

“Whoa! Look out for that cop, he’s a mean one. Hey, you got a quarter? I got to meet Johnny at a quarter of five. You got a quarter, man? I could use a quart of beer right about now. Sure you don’t have a quarter?”
Tom H., practicing the fine art of subliminal panhandling four blocks from Argonaut Liquors.

“OSAMA DOESN’T WANT ME TO DRINK.. Don’t let him win. Please give for freedom.”
Terry the Tramp’s patriotically defiant cardboard sign, corner of Speer and Washington.

“They won’t let me in there. ‘Cause I’m so nice to people. And I tip and drink so good. That’s why. And the time I hit that fucker with a mug, ‘cause he was eyeballing me. Don’t eyeball me and I’m the sweetest motherfucker around.”
Sweet Jerry, languishing in permanent exile outside the Squire Lounge.

"I tried that work thing and I just couldn't get behind it. I mean, you go to work, you get off, you eat some awful meal, you watch some t.v., you go to bed, you wake up and then whole fucking thing stars over again. I mean, there's just no end to it."
Rolly, age 33, unemployed and loving it under a tree along Speer Ave.

"Detox isn't as bad as everyone says. I make a game out of it. I pretend I've been captured by alien robots disguised as humans who are conducting experiments on me. And I just play along, pretending to not know what they're up to. See, it can be fun."
Jose P., age 40, evading the alien robots' grasp three blocks from Hi-Lo Liquors.

"I don't drink to escape or to forget or because I can't handle real life. I drink because whiskey is the key that sets the monkey free."
Daniel at the Lion's Lair Lounge, getting an early start on the afternoon.

"My daddy drank, grand-daddy drank, my goddamn great grand-daddy drank, and I'll be goddamned if I'm going to drop the ball now."
James K., age 27, keeping the tradition alive and well three blocks from Paul's Liquors.

"You evil fucker! Oh, you got me this time. Back's broke. Laying in my own piss. Oh, you got me now. My mama told me this would happen and I packed my bag and hit the road anyway. Ah, fuck it."
Alabama Bill, age 45, paralyzed by treachery and wine, moments before his miraculous recovery.

"Wine is my woman, my buddy is beer. Whiskey is my father and water is what I wear."
Jack, age 26, a block from Paul's Liquors, inspired to poetry by two 40s and an early morning rain.

"I used to be a millionaire, I lived on top of the Empire State Building. They called me Earl the Pearl. Then I got tired of all the attention."
Earl, age 53, lounging on a downtown bench, explaining why he gave his riches for the wino way.

"I don't need this . . . yes, sir, I'm getting up . . . I live over there . . . my sister fell down the stairs, hospital bull . . . no record, sir . . . can't help a guy out . . . ah, who gives a shit, I just want to lay down."
No name volunteered, startled from his midmorning nap behind a dumpster two blocks from Argonaut's.

"Of course alcohol is good for you. I don't need a doctor to tell me that. I mean, just look at me."
Al, age 47, strolling down Broadway, weighing in at a strapping 255 lbs.

"Hooooooooooweeeeeeeeeeee! That'll kill those worms!"
Preacher, age 50, taking his morning constitutional in the alley behind Wax Trax.

[Suicide Jim]

for dunks they sure do talk alot.

[Devious]

I like this one.. Sound like someone I know



Drunk? You think I’m drunk? Just wait fifteen minutes and I’ll really show you drunk.”
Unnamed drunk at an after-hours speakeasy who oddly seemed surprised when the bouncers didn’t seem interested in waiting long enough to find out if his statement was true.