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.