Smells, Policy and I went to an Irish bar here in Chicago last weekend.  We cozied up to a table next to the window, had a few beers and threw back more than a few shots of Tuaca.  After about at least four hours of “blades and bows” and “learn and do,” Policy asked “Is something burning?”

I usually can’t smell a thing but after he points it out we all agree, “Oh shit.  Yeah, something’s burning for sure.”

We tell the bartender and soon the entire joint stinks.  Everyone in the bar starts searching…  Did a candle fall over?  Is there a cigarette butt in the trash can?  Is there plastic smoldering on a light bulb?  No ones finding a thing….  After fifteen minutes of frantic searching, they call the Chicago Fire Department.

The firemen show up and everyone keeps boozing.  We assume these guys are professionals and will find the problem.  They essentially comb the entire place and find nothing, so they evacuate the bar.  No worries boys, all this racket is getting annoying anyways and this place is starting to reek.

We go outside and flag down a cab.  After about five seconds, Policy looks in the back seat and says, “What the fuck?  It stinks in here now too?”  He’s right, it does.  It still stinks but we all assume the odor has attached itself to us like a needy girlfriend and it’ll just go away.

The cabbie drops us off and Policy looks down and just starts laughing.  “Smells, look at your pants you fat head.”

The back of Smells right pant leg is burnt about eight inches up the back of his leg and the sole of his shoe is melted through to the sock.

Apparently someone’s foot was sitting on top of the heating vent and they had so many shots they didn’t realize that THEY were the one on fire.

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