Guess where I'm drinking?
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| Lori Midson |
Contrary to popular belief, the perfectly contoured, come-hither tongue in the above photo does not belong to Gene Simmons. Or to his long-lost cousin, brother, son, groundskeeper, guitar tuner, leather cleaner, ass-kisser, make-up artist or chauffeur. It is, in fact, the tongue of an adorable, smart-mouthed (in all the good ways) bartender who curls his index finger to summon smitten women (and maybe men, too; who knows?) to his bar to retrieve their cocktails -- or, in this case, Coronas, the beer of choice for Westworders who also know a good lingua when we see one.
The question is, in what Denver bar does this tongue slither?
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