W. C. Fields and Charles Bukowski walk into a bar. The bartender says, “What’ll y’have?”

Fields says, “M’boy, I’d like two fingers of your finest misanthropy with a shot of vitriol and a splash of bitters in a glass rimmed with salt from the dried tears of crying babies.”

Bukowski ponders for a moment, then says to the bartender, “Make that TWO Reasons to Live.”