A dangling participle walks into a bar. Enjoying a cocktail and chatting with the bartender, the evening passes pleasantly. A bar was walked into by the passive voice. An oxymoron walked into a bar, and the silence was deafening. A malapropism walks into a bar, looking for all intensive purposes like a wolf in cheap clothing, muttering epitaphs and casting dispersions on his magnificent other, who takes him for granite. Hyperbole totally rips into this insane bar and absolutely destroys everything. A non sequitur walks into a bar. In a strong wind, even turkeys can fly. Papyrus and Comic Sans walk into a bar. The bartender says, “Get out — we don’t serve your type.” A mixed metaphor walks into a bar, seeing the handwriting on the wall but hoping to nip it in the bud. Three intransitive verbs walk into a bar. They sit. They converse. They depart. A synonym strolls into a tavern. At the end of the day, a cliché walks into a bar — fresh as a daisy, cute as a button, and sharp as a tack. A run-on sentence walks into a bar it starts flirting. With a cute little sentence fragment. Falling slowly, softly falling, the chiasmus collapses to the bar floor. An allusion walks into a bar, despite the fact that alcohol is its Achilles heel. The subjunctive would have walked into a bar, had it only known. A misplaced modifier walks into a bar owned by a man with a glass eye named Ralph. The past, present, and future walked into a bar. It was tense. A dyslexic walks into a bra. An Oxford comma walks into a bar, where it spends the evening watching the television getting drunk and smoking cigars. A simile walks into a bar, as parched as a desert. A gerund and an infinitive walk into a bar, drinking to forget.