“I…cannot…believe it. My very own pooka,” exclaimed the drunk, tears coming to his eyes, “And I’m not even Irish.”

Giving him a funny look, the dead flat squirrel asked, “How did you know Pookas are Irish in origin?”

The drunk squared his shoulders proudly and placed a tremulous hand to the center of chest, “You may address me as Dr…Dr…I forgot my name. But I have a PhD, so I am a doctor, doctor of Comparative Mythology in Ancient Studies.” He punctuated his statement with a resounding belch.

The dead squirrel perked up, “What a coincidence! I have a PhD in Anthropology with an emphasis on primitive story telling motifs.”

“Oh crap,” sighed the flat, dead pooka, “That’s just my luck.”

The drunk turned his wavering head towards the downcast, flattened animal sort of thing to ask, “Aww, hic, why so down?” Laughing, he fell off his chair, amused at his own flat humor.

Once things were quiet, thanks to some shushing by the flat squirrel, the pooka bemoaned, “I didn’t even finish high school!”