I’ve asked that question once in the past 3 years.
Sometimes, asking the barkeep, “What do you have on tap?” is good for the soul.
At least once a month, I’m going to create an occasion to speak those words.
Even if it’s just me, perched atop a bar stool.
If you see a woman with crooked lipstick and three-inch-roots, wearing a pair of feet somewhere inside all those callouses and dirty, rubber flip-flops, come say “hi.”
I’ll share my french fries.
(Truest sentence I know: I need to drink more.)