I'm the rakish devil who walked into your bar tonight in a three piece suit. I sat down at your counter and perused your rather pedestrian drink selection. I immediately ruled out anything on tap, as it's too low-brow, but not enough so to be ironic. I could have ordered a PBR in a can like the rabble around me, but it wasn't that kind of night. No, I settled on your rosemary rum offering which was served adequately enough in a punch glass garnished with a round of lime.
Drink in hand, I mosied over to the pool table so I could embark upon my primary plan for the evening - playing pool in a three piece suit. I carefully selected a cue stick and expertly chalked it up, all the while scanning the room for already entranced ladies. I set and broke myself, as my friend William was unable to retrieve his three piece suit from the dry cleaners before they closed and therefore could not accompany me this evening.
By now you are watching me curiously from the bar. Who is this jaunty fellow casually flouting the skinny jeans/white v-neck/plaid button down dress code? Why are the rims of his glasses so thick? Is that a pocket square? All valid questions, that I would never consider answering unless I was acting out some sort of Casablanca role-play - so we probably shouldn't rule it out.
Yes, it's a fine night for playing pool in a three piece suit. I'm willing to ignore the toughs trying to rush me through my fifth game, and even the girl in the bike shorts who just puked all over one of the side pockets. None of it matters, because I look dashing here in this bar, and you, my trusty barkeep, have validated that with your quizzical stares.
