It was just a joke

3:10 a.m. "Are you OK?"

I was in the back room when I heard scuffling, then a series of thuds, coming from the hallway to the bathroom.

I ran out to see two men sprawled on the floor and another trying to lift the others up. Two-liter bottles of pop were strewn about, one with a broken top that was spraying the men with a fine mist .

"Of course, I'm OK," the drunkest of the three sputters as the puddle of Sprite broadens beneath him. "What kind of fuckin' question is that!?"

"It was just a joke, man," the standing man says.

"Don't worry about the pop. I'll take care of that," I say. "Just make sure your friend is OK."

The drunkest goes into the bathroom and the other two grab some drinks and head out to the car."

As I'm mopping up the floor, I can hear a high-pitched wailing from the restroom. I'm just about to call 911, when the drunkest emerges from the bathroom, apparently singing along with the Travis Tritt song on the PA.

He spends the next five minutes trying to put a bratwurst on a bun and cover it with ketchup without losing his balance and hitting the floor a second time.

He finally  pays for his dog and a drink and exits the store, staggering into the parking lot with a dark circle of what I hope was Sprite on the seat of his pants.

Later, while policing the parking lot, I discover the brat and bun. Luckily, pre-ingested.