Let Me Tell You a Story...

Hey buddy.

It's been a long time since we traveled this road together...

I missed you.

So come on, cop a squat and listen while I tell you about this one time when I was hanging out in a bar in South Boston with a guy named Jericho.

You see, Jericho was a rabid Irishman.

By which I naturally mean that he had green beer instead of blood in his veins, he had a shamrock tattooed over his heart and no day was complete unless he had a chance to beat the hell out of someone for a imagined insult to his "homeland."

You see, I put "homeland" in quotes because Jericho had never set so much as his pinky toe on the soil of Ireland.

In fact, I think he was from Hoboken.

But that's beside the point.

When I met him, he was drunk... as per usual.

He was also singing... again, as per usual.

I however, was not drunk. Nor did I plan to be.

I had stumbled into the dank and musty tavern intending merely to use the no doubt spotless facilities and then race back out to the GB, when he spotted me in the crowd, jumped off the stage where he'd been leading the other bar patrons in singing a rather raucous tune, and grabbed me by the arm. He insisted that I come up on stage and do a jig with him.

Since I was already jigging from the need to empty my bladder, I figured, 'what could it hurt?'

And I did it.

Thus, an instant bond was forged.

I discovered that Jericho, while incredibly spontaneous and fun, was also most definitely NOT in his right mind... Hell, he wasn't even in his LEFT mind.

Sanity had seen him coming... and made a break for points North.

So that's how I ended up making 300 bucks in tips from the patrons.

Amazing what a good jig will get you in South Boston.

I'd tell you more about the amazing adventures of Jericho and the Pirate Queen...

But then I'd have to kill you.

Until later my friend... I'll see you around.

Peace.