Misfits

The pub was quiet, a corner of the bar girded by a set of chairs. A polite looking man sat with a little handwritten sign, Communicating Socially.

I looked on as some mongs and a couple of retards signed in and were given name badges.

I called the barman over. "What on earth are they doing?" I asked him. And he told me.

Their stumbling, stilted efforts to learn social niceties had all the grace of a baby elephant learning to walk. They were laughing in that empty-headed, idiot way.

The barman looked at me, and went on with his cleaning.

"But what the hell's the point? They'll never fit in." I killed my pint with a flourish.

"Yes mate," said the barman, sluicing down the slop tray. "But you're the one sat in here on your own, aren't you?"