His name was Gary, but everyone at the bar called him Eeyore, on the rare occasion anyone spoke to him. Usually he stayed up one end of the bar, drinking four beers and two whiskeys a night.
But then every so often someone would wander in, usually from the betting shop next door, and would be looking to tell a sob story of their life.
Eeyore would then pipe up and retell his own life story, full of tragedy and disaster, none of it his fault, of course. But the sheer mass of tragedy, coupled with his sad monotone, he always won the pity-off contest that he invariably would start.
Until one afternoon, when he was just starting on his first beer. A gambler came in, ripping up all but one ticket, ready to get drunk and pity himself.
Eeyore sprung on him quickly, and after the whole story, the guy sighed and slid his last remaining betting slip over, telling Eeyore he deserved it more.
I think he thought he was being sarcastic, wanting Eeyore to have another defeat. But the ticket came good for 50 grand.
Never saw Gary again. But the gambler made an acceptable new Eeyore.
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