Baptized In Booze

The Dive Bar Deity

He’s not religious, but he’s damn near worshipped in every shitkicker dive from Pensacola to the Keys.
No one remembers when he showed up — he’s just always been there.
Sitting at the corner of the bar, two tallboys in hand, eyes hidden behind busted sunglasses
and a thousand-yard stare that’s seen more regrettable nights than a bachelorette party bus.

He’s the unofficial mascot of every late-night bar brawl,
the spirit animal of that guy passed out in the booth,
and the voice behind every off-key karaoke scream that somehow still gets a round of applause.
The man’s got beer in his veins, bar tabs for days,
and a look on his face that says, “I might not make it home tonight, but I’ll make it count.”

He’s been banned and re-invited more times than anyone can track.
His stories are equal parts unbelievable and somehow true.
He doesn’t tiptoe into the night — he stomps through it in work boots and a trail of empty cans.
He’s the reason the jukebox skips and the bartender keeps a mop behind the counter.

This guy didn’t choose the lifestyle. The lifestyle chose him —
wrapped him in neon lights, soaked him in booze, and called it good enough.
If he’s not already at your local bar, he’s on his way.
And when he shows up, shit changes. The night gets louder. The drinks get stronger.
The stories get dumber. And everyone knows something’s about to go horribly right.

You don’t need to understand him. You just need to hand him another beer and get out of the way.

Two steps from blackout. One step from greatness.