Chicago International Terminal

I’m sitting at the bar, eating a gyro and sipping on a tall Sam Adams draft.

Two german chicks sit to my right, and to my left, there suddenly appears a tall, nervous-looking Spanish guy. He talks really fast, and the Hispanic bartender seems to be able to barely keep up with the Spanish.

He asks for a tequilla, and the bartender recommends 1800.

“Eighteen Hundred Dolares??!”
“No, 1800 tequilla.”

So, he downs a shot, and immediately asks for another one. Slam!

And another one! Bam.

Then they talk for 30 seconds, and he decides to switch to a better tequilla.

Bam! Down goes another shot. Followed by a 5th shot! He’s been there ninety seconds.

And just like that, he is gone, leaving a dollar and thirty cents in his wake.

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