A writer and a pink elephant walk into a bar.
The elephant walks up to the bar and says to the bartender, “The writer that came in with me tells me this is the writers’ favorite watering hole in town.”
The bartender nods. “Like to think so.”
The elephant glances around. “But I don’t see anything odd.”
The bartender points to a woman sitting in back corner where the light was dim. “There sits a poet whose only love left her thirty years ago and that’s all she can writer about. She comes in, drinks, and talks to him as if he never left.”
The bartender points to a young man sitting in a booth, a pile of half smoked cigarettes in a bowl in front of him. “Over there is a novelist whose first book as a bestseller and whose next two books were panned or not reviewed at all. Yet, he keeps saying the next one will be a winner, though he’s yet to write a word of it.”
The bartender points to yet a third person and relates his story, then a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, and was about to tell about the deaf, mute, and blind from birth writer sitting next to the elephant at the bar, when the elephant nods.
The elephant walks over to the table where the drunk writer is sitting.
“You win,” the elephant says. “Me seeing you as a delusion at my watering hole is nothing like the things these writers see here.”
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