A man walks into a saloon, sidles up to the bar. The bartender asks him what he’ll have.
“I dunno,” he says. “I feel like something special tonight, something sweet. Or minty.”
“I have just thing,” the bartender answers, pulling out a few bottles. “It’s called a grasshopper.”
“Creme de menthe, creme de cocoa, mixed with cream and crushed ice. You’ll love it.”
In fact, the customer loves the concoction quite a bit and has several that evening, eventually pouring himself off his barstool and setting off somewhat unsteadily for home. Before long, he chances across a grassy patch, where an actual grasshopper sits on a leaf, chirping merrily in the night.
“Hey there,” he addresses the insect.
“Hey there yourself,” the grasshopper answers.
“There’s a drink named after you,” the man says.
The grasshopper is visibly impressed. “Really?” he chirps. “There’s a drink called Melvin?”