Resume

Taking a note from a recent comment on one of my articles, I have decided to post my resume for all employers to see.

Skubert Barleysworth

I live down there by Jeffy and Hucker

(I don't have no phone)

Skubert@internet.online

OBJECTIVE

I want a job and I am good at everything. I am reliable and a fast learner, though I do enjoy my alcoholic beverages and pretty much see all social interaction as an invitation for a fight. I will work for anyone in any position.

WORK EXPERIENCE

(Because there are so many entries here, I will only include some recent ones.)

Dutch Clogs tester (January 8, 2009 - January 11, 2009)

I was hired to dance in a local clog shop with every new model of clogs that old man Fleurben would make. I danced in the window and had to avoid sweating on everything.

Key Accomplishments

• Attracted a crowd of 28 people on my first day, though nobody came in the store
• Broke 14 pairs of clogs due to my intense dancing
• Learned that I wasn't hired to clog the guy's toilet, which is why I applied

Tenor screamer in the haunted house (October 28, 2008 - October 31, 2008)

I was hired to be one of the guys screaming in the haunted house during Halloween.

Key Accomplishments

• Screamed
• Watched some kid pee himself as a direct result of my screaming
• Chased a child into the spider room

Laundry cleanliness tester (September 12, 2008 - September 12, 2008)

I was hired to check how clean the dry cleaners got their clothes by smelling them. I only worked one day because I showed up kind of drunk and threw up on some of the clothes, then I wore someone's pants home, as I showed up without pants, too.

Key Accomplishments

• Smelled over 30 pairs of socks

EDUCATION

May 1994, Graduated 3rd grade

• Tallest graduate
• Best drawing of a tree

May 2000, Graduated 4th grade

• Only man to graduate alongside his son
• Loudest laugh

SKILLS

Skill name.................Skill level

Clapping....................Intermediate

Drinking beer...........Expert

Counting....................Intermediate

Thermochemistry........Expert

Chewing stuff............Intermediate

Yelling........................Expert

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION

I am going to be the best thing that ever happened to your company. Hire me and watch your company get better before your eyes. Don't hire me and I will set fire to your desk.

More to come.

When in doubt, drink a beer or 6

A typical Tuesday evening: I am walking home from my new job (this past week it was a fertilizer of personal gardens) and I spot my old friend Yerp Yerp Kwingy walking his parrot. After a few minutes of catching up from the previous week, and a loud scream contest, we make our way to a favorite pub of ours, "Beers for Fears." Generally we split a few brews over a game of pool or a ride on the mechanical bull (who later turned out to be the bartender's retarded brother, Yuble), but this past week we arrived at the bar to find the pool table in play and Yuble trying to get Hairy Pete off his back.

Anyway, while standing there not knowing what to do, we usually waltz over to the jukebox (literally) and check out their selection. We were torn this week between Tatu's "All the things she said" and Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide," and while we set to choosing our first song with a game I call "Insane head kicking," a skinny jerk put on Journey's "Don't Stop Believing," which is a great song, but it doesn't belong outside of Steve Perry Mondays.

Submerging my rage in a couple of beers, I felt ready to march over to the jukebox, push the twerp out of the way, and put on some Celine Dion. Not knowing of my famous "Barleysworth Rage," the punk stood his ground. It was only after this situation that I learned that it was not a skinny punk that I was trying to fight, but rather a bar stool. In my defense, I won.

Celebrating my victory, I enjoyed a few more beers. Then I drank 8 more. You may be disgusted with my behavior, you may even be surprised, but my family crest (below) has not changed in 687 years for a reason.

More to come.

Swine flu vaccine update: two for two

I am known for many things around these parts. Drop my name to a random stranger, I bet they will not only know me, but they will tell you of some sort of incident that I caused that made them uncomfortable. My unique blend of belly dancing and kite flying catch a lot of eyes in the spring, my moral objection to jump ropes keeps me on the alert for young girls (and them on the alert for 'Old man Skubert'), and my ongoing scientific inquiries keeps me, and my furious letters to the editor, on the pages of the Scientific America magazine.

I recently set my brain to tackling the now global epidemic that has people wearing sugical masks around me more frequently then that month I boycotted deodorant and shirts. That's right, I am talking about the swine flu. I knew that few had the smarts necessary to save the world, but if it was to be done, I was the man for the job. I locked myself in my basement, and when I finally got free I headed to my science lab in the shed. Once there, I set to creating a vaccine.

My first elixer was pretty basic, but you have to start somewhere. It consisted of Pepsi, applesauce, and a stick of butter. As I have made habit in my development of vaccines, I found someone on the street, promised them a foolproof vaccine, and had them ingest my brainchild. The guy I got to test my first elixer was not into the taste, which I thought was pretty great, but I ensured him it was worth his health, so he drank the 2.3 gallon dose.

My second elixer was a little more complicated. If my first was like Richard Dreyfuss, my second was like a young, in your face Walter Matthau. It primarily consisted of the water that comes out of a ketchup bottle before the ketchup does and Nivea aftershave, with smaller amounts of carpet fuzz and the goo that collects on the corners of my mouth after I do my morning arobics routine. This one was pretty potent, so my test subject only needed a small amount, which I injected into his right nipple.

As every experiment needs a control, and I don't want my inventions to be ignored because I forgot to have a control, I had a control. I had a third guy drink a glass of windex.

Well wouldn't you know it, my elixers worked while the control guy got sick as an old opossum. So if you want to safely protect yourself from swine flu, come on by and bring $37, because I don't accept insurance anymore.

More to come.

Peeing on yourself doesn't always help

I admit it, I am not a big fan of pants. Often, I can be seen deep-walking down the street in nothing more than a tank top. This obviously isn't the case when it is cold outside, as I tend to wear mittens when the temperature drops below 40 degrees farenheight. This isn't new information about me. I have done the pantsless strut ever since I was 13. So why do the cops always want to correct my lifestyle? Why do I get arrested for this once a month and spend a night in jail? Why did I have to go to court last week because it was my 100th offense. To be honest, I thought I had won a prize when he told me that it was my 100th time, but the cop just hit me in the nose with his foot.

So I spent my Tuesday in court this week, trying to explain to the judge that laws should not override habit. I don't think he understood my line of thought, because he kept having the bailiff make me put my pants back on. I had decided to act as my own lawyer, because most of the public lawyers don't like me, and my lawyer friend Marlp "Burger King" Bloob was away on vacation. I quickly realized that not knowing all the other cases that ever happened like the other lawyer hurt my case.

I had a plan for success. When skill and preparation don't work, sympathy always will. I explained in my closing argument that nobody knows what it is like being me, that my life is really hard, and that I am morally opposed to happiness. To my surprise, I was found guilty and was sentenced to more community service. Thinking quickly, I determined that a man who pees his pants could not be found guilty of any crime. Unfortunately, this didn't work on the judge, and I was removed from the court. It would have been silent but my shoes squished with every step, and I stopped twice to fart.

More to come.

Walk tall, Socky Gipptipperboo, I salute you

If I farted every time my sidekick, Socky Gipptipperboo, was persecuted, I would never stop laughing and sitting on people. Socky draws more attention to himself than that one guy in front of the porn shop who wears sandwich-board ads for head lice removal. I don't know if it is his habit of mouth-breathing, his disregard for public pooping laws, his excess body hair, his sniffing peoples' crotches, or his hatred of Newt Gingrich, but he cannot catch a break.

Now usually when I am describing him to cashiers at Waffle House or reliving his hilarity during a police line up, people tend to think that I am describing a dog. This is not the case. Socky is every bit a person as I am, he just doesn't believe in the "social constraints" that the courts keep outlining for him.

Socky met his unfortunate end last Tuesday as a result of a dare he put on himself and performed for our amusement. While talking about shoelaces with a local gang of third graders, Socky was insulted by Jim "Snappy fingers" Henkins. Snappy fingers said that Socky was a big dumb girl after Socky called the gang a bunch of short squeekers. Socky, a near perfect man, has one weakness: his pride. In retalliation, Socky told them that he would perform one of his own dares. After two minutes of silence, he told them that he would eat half of a bee hive. This may sound easy enough, but Socky is allergic to bees and they hate people eating their hive.

After 4 mintues of yelling and chewing, and swelling to the size of Cousin Sweaty, Socky declared victory and tried to rub the kid's face in it (literally in the hive), but he died as he chased the kid.

Now I know how Andy Griffith would feel if Barney Fief had died during a bet.

More to come.

I bet Mozart was bored a lot

My job hunting has slowed down a little bit, mainly because I don't like getting arrested more than 3 times per week and my job interviews usually end in arrest. So what have you been doing to fill the void in your life that was once work? you may be asking. I have been sitting mostly, not doing too much. I like to be bored stupid. But recently I realized that, if I had a full sized philharmonic orchestra, I could write some pretty fine music, as music has been filling my head recently.

All of these tunes disappear shortly after I think of them, and I know that they are good enough to be on commercials and stuff, if not better. I have tried remembering them, writing them down (I wish I knew how to write sheet music, because "DOO DOO dumm dumm BLEE DEE FLOOO" isn't as descriptive the next day when I am trying to remember my Opus), and telling people on the street to remember the notes as they flow from my head through my mouth and into their ears, one of which is usually enveloped by my mouth. Nothing is working, though.

So I decided to write a book about my likeness to Mozart, because the only thing that was different between us was his ability to write the music on them lines right. That and there were only like 5 songs around when he started writing, so pretty much everything was a new song. Hell, he could have farted twice and called it a sonata.

More to come.

I wish I knew women required tenderness before I punched that woman.

Don't make me mad. This is something I tell my readers, family, random strangers on the street, and I have even tattooed it on my thighs, which are usually exposed. Yet I still encounter people who seem to try with everything in them to push my anger buttons. Why do these people enjoy seeing me erupt in rage? Is it my response of profuse vomiting followed by wild fighting with whoever may be nearby? Is it my less than perfect appearance? Is it my habit of singing songs that I write in my head? No, it is because these people are stupid.

One woman, I'll call her Stupid Stuperson, decided to wait until she was up in line at the hotdog cart yesterday to decide what she wanted. I have little to no patience for people who don't know what they want. Hotdogs haven't changed in 100 years. Same condiments, same bun, same hotdog. So when you take 3 seconds to cough and 4 seconds to hum to yourself while you decide what you want, I should be able to take 1 second to punch you in the mouth.

Readers, you know the facts of the story. You know why I reacted the way I did. I am sure that you would have done the same or would have high fived me had you seen me do it. Why did people react the way they did? There is no reason to yell at me and rush to Stupid Stuperson's help. The teeth I broke weren't even real teeth! They were dentures. Plus, she only fell because she let go of her cane when I hit her, which I attribute to her stupidness.

Needless to say, I may be seeing some of you in the near future as I finish my community service for "assaulting a 90 year old woman."

More to come.

Uncle Muffert's butt crack activity

We Barleysworth's are a large family, and of the 89 of us what came from Pappy Dinger and his wife, Granny Burtle, 76 of us are men. Now this makes certain things difficult, like waiting in line to see the naked lady cards Granny gave my brother Dubert last year, but it makes other things better. Every tripod among us loves them James Bond movies, although we don't much like the talking. We are mostly in it for the killing, loving, and of course, the inventions that 'old white hair inventor' (we don't know his name) invents.

Recently, my super smart nephew, Noser (We call him that because he knows so much) gave uncle Muffert the best present I have ever seen for his birthday: terlit paper britches.

A little background: Uncle Muffert is known among the family, and the whole community, as a man who is quick to rage but quicker to a spontaneous dance. Once when he was younger, he distracted a fat guy long enough with his exhausting jig for his friend to throw a bucket of his own pee at the guy's head. Recently, though, Uncle Muffert has been unable to dance as he once had due to his leaky butt problems. This didn't stop him, mind you, but it did make the dances less meaningful. He used to do his interpretation of a dance he saw on that movie with them midgets on the sidewalk and it would really make us think, but now we all stare at the poo dribbling down his legs and pray that his flailing limbs don't fling none of it at us.

So Noser's invention/gift was a wonderful gift that transformed Uncle Muffert's life into what it once was. Now after he responds to a doorbell, telemarketer, or a policeman pulling him over with a fantastic dance, he just has to throw away his under britches and put on a new pair.

Thank you Noser, for giving him a reason to live again.

More to come.