An Irishman walks into a bar and orders two shots of whiskey.
He downs both by himself and leaves.
The next day, he comes back. Orders two shots. Drinks both. Leaves again.
And that becomes routine.
Every single day the guy would show up, order exactly two shots, down them in silence, and vanish like a secondary character in a film noir.
Until one day the bartender can’t take the curiosity anymore.
“My friend… why do you always order two shots?”
The Irishman sighs, staring at the glass like someone who’s already cried listening to sad music in a pub at three in the morning.
“My brother and I used to drink together every night. But he moved to the other side of the country. So I take one shot for me… and another for him…”
The bartender nearly gets emotional. Thought it was beautiful. Brotherly stuff. Family ties watered with alcohol and emotional cirrhosis.
Time passes.
Until one night the Irishman walks in and orders just one shot.
The bartender gets worried right away.
“My God… did something happen to your brother????”
The Irishman replies, “No, no. He’s doing great.”
The bartender relaxes. “So why just one shot today?”
The Irishman takes a calm sip and replies, “Because I quit drinking.”
