Took my dad to the doctor the other day, he will be 88 next month...he said he thought if he had a martini (both my parents, now barred from drinking by meds [boo!], used to guzzle copious amounts of bad gin) he would collapse instantly.
He then recited this poem, wonky meter and all:
Here's to the martini,
two at the most.
Three, you're under the table;
four, you're under the host.
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