I had just moved into a new neighborhood in Boise, ID, after my company had transferred me from Charleston, SC. This was my first free weekend, so I went walking around Downtown looking for a good neighborhood type bar. A few blocks from my home I found a little corner bar. I walked in and took a seat at the bar, down at the end, away from the locals and ordered a beer.

“What beer would you like?”

“Well, I prefer a beer I can’t see through and I would prefer a beer that doesn’t have that burnt grain flavor to it.”

“I, sir, have just the thing. Irish Death!”

“Irish Death?” There was a lot of doubt in the tone of my voice.

“Ah, you’re new here. My name is Wes and you are going to love this ale.”

And with that Wes, the bartender, turned and pulled out a frosted pint glass and began to pull the tap handle. This place had hand pumps for some of their beers. That was very cool.

“Hand pump taps?” I asked.

“A beer engine, if you please. Only for the very special beers. And Irish Death is one of those. You are going to love this ale,” he repeated.

After my first sip, I was hooked and so I settled back and began to get a really nice vibe from the locals and the bartender. I allowed myself to be drawn into the main conversation that was going on and soon the locals and I were laughing and having a great time.

Suddenly, I got this queasy feeling in my stomach and I knew instantly what it was. In mid-conversation I stood and without a word, I took off for the front door. Wes immediately took notice.

“Hey! Are you OK? Did we say something wrong?”

“What? Oh. No. I ... um ... have to go home and use the bathroom.”

“Why can’t you use ours?”

“Well ... I have this condition ... it requires me to take special salts when I go to the bathroom.”

“Special salts? Can’t you take them here?”

“I guess I could ... it’s just that...”

“No arguments. Mi casa su casa.”

“Really? Wow, Wes, I love this bar.”

I headed off in the direction that Wes pointed and found the men’s restroom. After a very satisfying several minutes I returned to my barstool, but before resuming the conversation I made an announcement.

“Hey, everybody! Thank you for welcoming me to this fine establishment I’ve not felt this welcome in a long time. Wes, I would like to buy a round for the house.”

“You got it. Hey everybody. The new guy has bought a round for the house.”

As the locals were drinking and chatting, the neighborhood drunk came staggering into the bar and wandered off to the men’s room. A few seconds later there was an ear-shattering scream and the drunk came running out of the men’s room, ran to the bar, reached over and grabbed Wes by the front of his shirt and screamed in his face.

“WES! THE BATHROOM! THE BATHROOM!”

Wes ran down the length of the bar and around to the men’s room. He turned on the lights and found shit everywhere. There was shit on the walls. There was shit on the ceiling. There was shit UNDER the sinks.

Wes stood and wondered what happened. Then he remembered that I was the last guy to use the room. He opened the door and ran out into the bar and grabbed me by the back of my shirt and dragged me off the bar stool.

“What the fuck did you do to my men’s room?” he screamed.

“Wes. you said I could use the men’s room. You said I could stay here and take my salts.”

“SALTS!? What the fuck kind of salts do you take?”

For

It

I looked at Wes and replied:

“Somer?”