In the underground of Oklahoma City nightlife, there is a sect of society that believes in upping the meritocratic ante: you get tipped for the pain you can endure.
For the holidays, I had to pack up my duds and scoot to the buckle of the Bible belt to experience Christmas Okie style. On Christmas Eve, I rolled up to Edna's, a Sooner mainstay famous for what may be the world's greatest elixir, the Lunchbox (a mixture Coors Light, Amaretto, and orange juice served in a chilled glass). If you ever make it to this twister-torn state and arrive a little thirsty, remember that it's tradition to take down this $4 liquid bliss in a single Adam's-apple-bobbing chug.
Another tradition endemic to Edna's: stapling dollar bills to the wall. Sports teams and sweethearts write messages all over George Washington's face and take to high chairs to fasten these dollahhhs to the ceiling or on the rustic rafters.
Yet there was one rite I had never seen in my many years on the nightlife circuit: the human tip jar.
After we had a few Lunchboxes and got a little worse for the weary, we saw a man enter into the center of the bar and lift his shirt to reveal an impressive belly.
Instead of fixing their dollars to the wall, the clientele began stapling their money to his stomach and chest.
And you thought your bartender at the Spotted Pig worked hard for the money!
This dude went off a little richer to go get another Lunchbox (which may have anesthatized him against the pain) and some fried pickles.