The Council of 32 meet in secret, performing ancient rituals and casting bones to determine when the time is right. Once they decide on the moment, the trials of combat begin. Each existing bartender is allowed to champion someone, and enters the arena with their protege's photo tattooed on his or her chest.
The council has secretly determined the number of new bartenders, and the combat begins until there are only that mystery number left standing.
Those lucky few are then invited. The smart ones run away quickly, and the dimmer ones take up the mantle, and the circle repeats itself, over and over, throughout eternity...
Never ascribe to malice that which can be adequately explained by stupidity.
It helps to have posted more than 17 times (at last check), although volume alone isn't enough, especially if the posts are in the Meaningless Drivel forum. [ March 31, 2008: Message edited by: Scott Selikoff ]