A baby walks into a bar, climbs onto a stool and says, “Gimme a whisky.”
The bloodhound behind the bar sniffs suspiciously.
“I don’t need a diaper change. I need a whisky.”
“I wasn’t sniffing for that. I was checking if you’ve already had too much to drink. Wouldn’t you rather have a milk?”
“Already did. That’s why I need a whisky. Straight up.”
“Ooooo-kay. Here you go.” The bartender gives the baby his whisky. The baby sips it and sighs.
“Thanks. Mom drinks the worst rotgut…”

The door to the bar opens and a butterfly flutters in, lands on the bar. The baby and the bartender look at it.
“Gimme a whisky,” it says.
“You sure you wouldn’t rather have a nectar?”
“Have you tasted nectar lately? POLLUTED! I need a whiskey. Just a shot’ll do.”
“Sure, no problem.” The bartender gives the butterfly a shot. The butterfly dips its tongue in, then sighs.

A ’57 Chevy comes into the bar, orders 100 octane leaded, straight up.
“I can’t serve that to you – pollution laws.”
“Well, pollute you, too, buddy!” And the Chevy storms out of the bar.

The door to the bar opens again. A VW diesel car starts to come inside. The bartender growls, “We don’t serve your kind here.”

(Inspired by reading about whisky, then going to the Hawaii Fiction Writers workshop on comedy this past Saturday)