It was a slow Tuesday at Earl’s Garage Pub, a place where the floor creaked louder than the regulars’ knees.
Joe and Frank, best friends since the Eisenhower era, sat at their usual corner, sipping something brown and suspiciously unlabeled.
“Hey Joey,” Frank leaned in with a smirk, “how’s your s*x life these days?”
Joe sighed dramatically and pointed to his drink.
“Same as this bottle of Coke,” he said.
“Started off classic, got a little light… and now? It’s zero, baby.”
Frank cackled so hard his dentures almost made a break for it.
“That’s better than mine,” Frank snorted. “Last time we had a spark, the smoke alarm called 911.”
Joe raised his glass. “To passion, arthritis, and memory foam.”
Frank clinked his glass. “And to never drinking actual Coke again. Too many memories.”