The poor guy. He is running in circles, howling, knocking over more bar stools. He bumps the snack mix off of the bar into the ice. The barmaid glares. You try to get close to him but he is unconsolable in his weeping. "Hey buddy, I didn't mean it." "My nose, my nose, my nose!" You get your voice as soothing as you can. You tip-toe over and pat him gently on the back. "Buddy, it's OK, it's OK. Here we go now, all right? Hold still. Breathe deep, OK? Can you breathe deep? OK, OK, on the count of three. One, Two--" You smack him in the nose again, nice and good, and withdraw your hand wide open so that there can be no way you could possibly be holding a nose. He gingerly puts his hand up to his face. He smiles. He sighs. He checks his reflection in the mirror behind the bar once or twice. Then he crumbles into a heap. In other bars you would call that passing out. But let's just call it a little nap. Now, for goodness sake, you may talk to that girl if you would only get yer ass to page 3.