We made it, boys. The promised land. The land of milk stout and honey whiskey. The bar. We pushed our way through the mob of sweaty yuppies, and now we’re face to face with the bartenders. So order a drink, and then nurse it. But don’t move an inch. Ain't nobody else getting up to this here bar.

There isn't a law on the books or rule of decorum that will get us to budge. Civilization has no hold over us this deep in the crowd. The nearest law man is checking IDs at the door. He may as well be miles from here. Create a human phalanx of idle alcohol consumption – whatever it takes to prevent anyone else from encroaching on our claim.

The bartenders are our conquest, our spoils. Maybe we’ll take some shots. Maybe we’ll just get a pitcher of beer and hang out with it. Order some silly cocktails if it pleases you. Muddled mint. Frizzled cherries. Rinds, bitters, parasols. Let’s get some ice cubes ice-picked out of larger ice cubes. This is what we risked life and limb for.

When we first ventured into this establishment, I dreamt of one day staking out my own place at the bar. But I didn’t have the drive then. So we sat at the tables with the other refined folk and waited on a server to bring us drinks, a server who never came. When we finally grew sick and tired with the false comfort of civilized table service, we set out through the crowd, not knowing what would await us. I want to thank you men for trusting in me to lead you to this just reward.

This is our life now: holding down this little patch of land in front of the bar. Let’s open up our Tinder apps and find women to settle down with. We’ll raise children and tell them how we wrestled this area in front of the bar away from the wilderness. One day our children will take up our sacred duty of making sure no one steals our rightful place of ordering drinks at this bar.

This scarred wooden floor is hard, but it will yield to our plows. We’ll work this land in front of the bar until it bears us fruit. Our community will flourish. We will build a city upon a hill in front of this bar. We’ll be the envy and example of this entire gastropub, if not the world.

Excuse me, sir, you're encroaching on my space. Yes, I've ordered, but I plan on ordering more. Hey, that's my barstool, I need that. Ow, you're standing on my foot. Whoa, lady, can you back up a bit? Stop. Excuse me. Excuse me!

I never thought I’d see myself back at these tables. We had it all. Now we have nothing. Nurse your drinks, fellas. We might never know such pleasures again.

Look at those lawless ruffians posted up at the bar. They've ordered. They have their drinks. There's no need for them to stay there, blocking everyone else. But they do so, because they can. What a glorious power. God bless them. Ain't nobody else getting up to that there bar.

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