The brewery where Pat Malore worked sent an employee over to his home one day to deliver the sad news that Pat had drowned in a fermenting vat.
After the wife dried her tears and regained her composure, she remarked that at least Pat died doing something he loved and didn't suffer long.
"Aye," the employee nodded, "He did love working in the vats and doing the sampling. But, I hate to tell you, it did take awhile before he drowned. Reports are that he got out at least three times to tinkle."
Is pissing booze better than sh*tting tiffany cufflinks?