I was at an "Irish pub" in Atlanta, and he kept yelling "20 Marbraugh!" at the bartender. He was standing next to me at the bar where no one who had somewhere to sit had to stand. He was drunk and happy and wearing a torn, oily T-shirt and sounding very foreign. The bartender didn't speak the frightening, giant, construction worker's foreign language, so I interpreted: "He wants a pack of Marlboros," I shouted, without trying to compete with my adopted Irish guest.
He turned to me, smiling and very happily drunk and laughing slapped me on the back of my right shoulder and broke every bone in my body. I have no idea what he said when he did it; I've always believed it was complimentary in nature.