Ted: What the hell is "the sexless innkeeper"?
Barney: Ted, many a man - nay, many a soul - has their own tale of the sexless innkeeper. Why, I had run-in with one just last year. I even composed a poem about it. Would you care to hear it?
Ted: Not really.
Barney: T'was the night before New Year's, and the weather grew mean. It was 3:00 in the morning, and I was stranded in Queens. The tavern grew empty, the gas lights grew dim. The horse-drawn carriages were all but snowed in...
Ted: Wait. If this was last year, why are you acting like it was Oliver Twist?
Barney: Ted, it's a poem. Last call was approaching, and my fortunes looked bleak. Then I turned to my left and stifled a shriek. She had a peach fuzz beard and weighed 16 stone. She gobbled up hot wings and swallowed the bones. I muffled a scream and threw up in my mouth. I asked, "Where do you live?" And she said, "One block south." I swallowed my pride and six shots of whiskey, and prayed to the Gods that she wasn't too frisky. Back in her cave, she prepared us a snack. 'neath her mighty hooves, the floorboards did crack. But when she returned, she found a sound sleeper. And thus she became the sexless innkeeper.