A drunk guy had been sitting at the bar for hours,
glass after glass disappearing like magic. The place was buzzing—music playing, people laughing, glasses clinking—but he was in his own little world, swaying slightly on his stool.
Eventually, he slid off the barstool, wobbling a bit as he tried to steady himself.
“I’ll be right back…” he mumbled to no one in particular, then staggered toward the bathroom.
A couple of minutes passed.
Then suddenly—
A loud, bl**d-c*rdling scream echoed from the bathroom.
The entire bar went quiet for a second.
People looked at each other.
“Did you hear that?”
“Yeah… what the hell was that?”
The bartender frowned but shrugged it off. “Probably just too much whiskey,” he muttered.
But then—
A few minutes later…
Another even louder scream blasted through the bar.
Now people were visibly uncomfortable.
Someone near the door stood up. “Man, I’m not going in there.”
The bartender sighed, wiped his hands on a towel, and said, “Alright, that’s enough.”
He marched toward the bathroom, muttering, “You’re scaring the customers!”
He pushed the door open.
Inside, the drunk guy was sitting there, pale, sweating, gripping onto the sides like his life depended on it.
The bartender snapped, “What is wrong with you?!”
The drunk looked up, eyes wide with panic.
“I swear… I’m just sitting here on the toilet…” he said, trembling,
“…and every time I flush…”
He gulped.
“…something comes up and squ**zes the hell out of my b*lls!”
The bartender stared at him for a second.
Then slowly leaned in…
Took one look…
Shook his head.
“You idiot…”
He pointed down.
“You’re sitting on the mop bucket.”
