Bob the Verbose, patron philosopher of cheap whiskey, stood on the street corner shouting his scriptures of nonsense at the sinfully sober crowd. Nobody really cared about his message, but the constant mentions of strong drink kept his audience, in equal parts, ready to join in and ready to condemn.
Building to crescendo, Bob halted for a mighty pregnant pause, which the inattentive crowd mistook for the end of the speech and wandered off. All attempts at recovering his hold over the audience failed in ever feebler pleas.
Bob packed up. Barely enough in the tip jar for a pint.