One particularly dry evening, Momaw Nadon strolls into the Mos Eisley Cantina and stands next to the bar. “Three shots of Corellian whiskey, please,” he warbles in stereo.
Ackmena, the bartender, looks at him suspiciously. “One after another?”
“Nope,” responds Momaw, “all at once, if you could.”
Shrugging her shoulders, she takes out three shotglasses, fills them each to the brim, and places them before him. The thirsty Ithorian quickly downs the first glass, then the second, then the third.
“You know,” says the curious Ackmena, “that’s pretty strong stuff. Why not savor it and drink ‘em one at a time?”
“It’s to remind me of home,” responds Momaw. “Back on Ithor, my two brothers and I would go drinking all the time. But now, the three of us are scattered about the galaxy. So we made a pact: every night, no matter where we were, we’d each take three shots all at once, as if we were all drinking together once again.”
“Awwww, that’s sweet,” says Ackmena, “you come back here any time you want.”
And that’s exactly what Momaw Nadon did. Every night he’d return to the Cantina, where he would drink three separate shots of Corellian whiskey.
This ritual continues for months, until one evening. As usual, Momaw walks to his regular place at the bar, and Ackmena sets three full shotglasses before him. Then, slowly, Momaw pushes one of the glasses back towards her. “Not tonight, Ackmena. Just two glasses tonight, and just two from now on.”
As he slurps down both drinks, the rest of the Cantina patrons grow silent. Everyone feels the same terrible sense of loss. Finally, Ackmena summons up the courage to say something.
“Momaw,” she stammers, “I’m so sorry. Which of your brothers passed away?”
The Ithorian’s hammerhead eyes widen with surprise. “What? My brothers aren’t dead!”
“But — you wanted two glasses, instead of three?”
“Oh, no, it’s not like that,” says Momaw, “I just gave up drinking!”
Watto flutters up to the bar at the Mos Eisley Cantina. “Oooh, this is bad,” he says, to noone in particular.
“What’s bad?” asks the nearby bartender.
“I’m supposed to pay Jabba the Hutt 5,000 credits. But half of that is missing!”
“So? Hutts never expect the full amount. Just give him half!”
“That’s the half that’s missing,” sighs Watto.
Reeking of intoxication, Hem Dazon stumbles into the Mos Eisley Cantina and approaches the bar. “My good man,” he says to Wuher the bartender, “I’d like you to give a drink to everyone here! Then pour yourself a drink. And give me the tab.”
The Cantina crowd cheers, and Wuher happily hands out a round. But when he presents Hem with the bill, Hem shakes his head. “Sorry,” says the tipsy Arcona, “I can’t cover that. I don’t have a dime on me.”
Wuher is properly incensed. He punches Dazon in the face, then kicks him to the ground. Finally, he picks him up and literally throws him out of the Cantina.
But the next day, as if nothing had happened, Hem strolls back into the Cantina. “Sir,” he announces, “please pour a drink for all of your wonderful patrons, and give me the tab!”
“Oh really?” smirks Wuher, “No drink for me this time?”
“Certainly not,” says Dazon, “you get violent when you drink.”
Kabe sits in the Mos Eisley Cantina, pounding down one drink after another. Muftak notices this and strolls on over to see what’s bothering her.
“Yeah, I’m upset” replies Kabe, “Three months ago, my grandmother died. Suddenly, out of nowhere. Gone. She left me 15,000 credits.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” says Muftak.
“But then,” Kabe continues, “but then! But then, four weeks later, my father passes away. He wasn’t much of a dad, but he left me 40,000 credits.”
“Two losses in a row,” replies Muftak, “that must have been pretty hard on you.”
“It was,” nods Kabe, “and then it got worse. Three weeks ago, my own mother died. My own dear sweet mother! And in her inheritance, she willed me 20,000 credits.”
“What a horrible time this must be for you,” says Muftak in his most sympathetic voice.
“Yeah,” Muftak responds, “and then this month - nothin’!”
A dewback walks into the Mos Eisley Cantina and orders a Gamorrean beer, handing Wuher the bartender twenty credits.
Wuher looks at the twenty creds and thinks That dumb dewback doesn’t know the price of beer. So he gives him just one credit in change.
“You know,” Wuher says, “we don’t get many dewbacks in here.”
“I believe it,” says the dewback, “and at nineteen credits a drink, I aint coming back, either.”