[ That clap on the back nearly sends Sans careening into the bar, eye sockets round in unstated surprise. Holy moly, the guy's strong. If there had been even an iota of ill-intent in that swing, Sans would've been little more than a grey, gritty streak of dust on the floor. He straightens himself up with a wheezy: ]

Yeah? Well, paint hard to see there's no harm done.

Anyway, uh... I'll be honest. I don't recognize any of this.

[ He spreads a bony hand at the row of bottles he can see from his own vantage point. Mind helping a fellow newbie out?

Let's be honest: practically everyone, wherever Sans looks in this party atmosphere full of gyrating people, seems to be at least a little tipsy, a little high on life. He can't say he really sees the appeal that others of these (if not humans universally, then:) non-monsters see in each other's paint-powder-smeared, partially clad bodies (he really, really doesn't), but there's one thing here he CAN relate with:

And that's the decision to have a good time even if things aren't really what you wanted, expected, or think you need at the time. So, yeah, ok. Good on these guys, living it up so they can face another confusing day tomorrow. After all, it ain't all THAT different from how the bar flies back home would hang out regularly, basking in the warm glow of the fiery bartender of Grillby's, washing down their problems and sharing a few good laughs.

Heh heh, he'll drink to that.

Speaking of, he's pretty sure a place like this isn't packing any ketchup. Too bad. ]

Beets me, think they got anything with tomato in it?