(This is my first and favorite. To do this right, one needs to be able to play the talking-twelve-bar-blues on the guitar behind this. The chords are: E E7 A7 A7sus E E7 A7 A7sus B7 Cweirdness A7 A7sus
The Cweirdness chord is produced by sliding the B7 fingering up one fret on the neck. The turnaround is done by starting at F#7, sliding down the neck one fret at a time, then: E B7
Helps to put on a fake Welsh accent while telling this story. No, really, it does... -- Lloyd)

  
INTRO: For the last thousand years or so, the Irish and the Scots have 
been fighting like sailors over which one of them first discovered how 
to make whiskey (which is a word which comes from the old language of 
the Celtic Gauls... "uisce batha", the water of life). However, the 
truth that's been shrouded in secrecy all this time is that it was 
originally invented by the Welsh and given to both the Irish and the 
Scots to keep them where they belonged.  
   Now, the story I'm about to tell was recently borrowed and made 
popular by the mundane artist Jimmy Buffet, who claims that he stole it 
from the late great Lord Richard Buckley... and then he even goes on to 
cast doubts as to whether Lord Buckley even wrote it himself. 
   Here is the story in its original form. It describes how the Scots 
learned to make whiskey for themselves, and it's called "God's Own 
Drunk". 

(Begin playing a twelve-bar talking blues riff on a guitar)

   Now, I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'm not very much of 
a drinking man.  
   Because, I started drinking in a tavern in Cardiff on a Friday night 
and when I awoke on a Tuesday hanging in a tree somewhere near Dublin, 
and with my knees shaking and my teeth clattering I swore I would never 
do it again.  
   But, I promised my brother Ian that I would watch his still for him 
whilst he went into town to drive out the Saxons... again. 
   And, it was right up there on the side of Mount Snowdon where the map 
said it would be, and let me tell you, lords and ladies, that this was 
no ordinary still 
   It sat up there on the mountain gleaming like a golden opal. 
   God's little lanterns were twinkling on and off in the heavens.
   God's yellow moon was shining down on the cool clear evening.
   And, I'll say it again, I'm not very much of a drinking man...
   But, pretty soon.... this feeling come over me.... temptation got the 
best of me and I took a slash. 
   And that Mount Snowdon whiskey going down my throat felt like 
honeydew vine water and I took another slash. 
   Then, I took another.... and another, and another and pretty soon I 
had drank a whole jug of that whiskey and commenced to getting hot 
flashes. Goosepimples all running up and down my body. 
   A feeling come over me. A feeling like I had never known before. It 
was like I was in love. For the nine hundred and ninety-ninth time.... 
that day. With anything that moved. Animate, inanimate, animal, mineral, 
vegetable, it didn't matter. 
   There was a great sign in the heavens that said, Lloyd.... Lloyd ap 
Taliesin y Felinfoel you bloody fool.... there is a great day coming.... 
   Because I was drunk.
   Now, I wasn't just knee-crawling, privy-hugging, tree-climbing drunk. 
No.... I was God's own drunk and a fearless man. 
   And that was when I think I first saw the Scot (do these things only 
seem to happen to you when you're drunk, or what?) 
   He was a big, tall, Stuart-looking sodomite about thirty-six hands 
tall at the shoulders and he came a rambling up from the direction of 
Offa's Dyke expecting me to do one of two things: either flip or fly. 
And, when I didn't do either one, it hung him up. 
   Then, he came in a little closer, expecting to smell some fear. Of 
course, he wasn't going to smell any fear because I was God's own drunk 
and a fearless man.... and a Welshman on top of that. It hung him up. 
   Until he ate my hat just to show me that he was a cold-blooded 
killer. 
   And I had just stolen that hat from a Saxon merchant not half a 
fortnight before and I was really put out. (Thing must have been worth 
at least twenty crowns....) 
   But then he could see that my eyes were a lot redder than his were 
and it hung him up. 
   So I said to him, "My lord..." That very respectful way that you say 
"my lord".... 
   Like when you're in the princess's bedchambers and you're feeling 
pretty confident because when you came in you had three bottles of wine, 
two of which are now empty, the last has only got this much left in it, 
and it doesn't look like the flagon of whiskey that you brought just in 
case will even be necessary.  
   Two of his Highness's best guards are out on the balcony with nasty 
lumps on the sides of their heads which should keep them asleep until 
after the morn.  
   Her Highness's clothing is strewn all about the bedchambers as if a 
gale had passed through, and the pillows are down around the foot of the 
bed.... (Don't ask -- she's a saxon, isn't she?) 
   And the prince, whom you're sure is going to be in London for another 
three full days.... comes through the bloody door. 
   "My lord! Ah, your Highness, how was your journey? Good to see you 
back early...." 
   And then he leans a bit on you and you say, "Please don't give me to 
the Captain of the Guard because when my wife finds out about this you 
won't have anything left of me to execute." 
   "I only came in here because her Highness wanted to use me as a model 
for a doublet she sewing for you, and the very next thing I knew my 
teeth were caught on the front of her bodice, and I can see that I'm in 
trouble now.... I've got a flagon of good whiskey here." 
   "My lord, I love every hair on your fifty-five acre Highlander back. 
   "And I know that you've got a lot of friends over there on the other 
side of Culloden Moor.... Gregories and Ross and Stuarts and Kennedys 
and MacArthurs, MacLarens, MacLelans, MacLeans, MacLeods, MacIntosh... 
IBM...Mack Trucks, MacAnical, even two or three sheepish MacChluarains
in there somewhere........
   "And I want you to go back there tonight and tell them that I'm 
feeling right.  
   "And that I love each and every one of them as much as my own 
brothers and sisters.... especially your sisters.  
   "But, if they give me any trouble tonight.... as much as I'll hate to 
do it, I'll have to run each and every God damned one of them right into 
the sea." 
   Well, that's what I told him. 
   He took a step back and didn't know what to say.
   Neither did I.
   But, being charitable and drunk, I approached him a second time and 
said, "You know, in the eyes of the Lord, we are both the same kind of 
beast when you get right down to it.... You more of a beast than me.  
   "So, I want you to be my brother.... Brother Mack." 
   And I led him over to the still by his cudgel shaped hand and he 
started sniffing around it because he smelled something good.  
   Not surprising, Ian's still was the best in Wales.  Then, before I 
knew it, he had tipped one of those jugs of whiskey upright and drank it 
right down. 
   And let me tell you now, there is nothing more frightening in this 
world or any other than the sight of a nine foot tall man in a dress 
drinking an entire jug of whiskey in one shot....  
   Then, he drank another.... and another, and another, until pretty 
soon he had drunk eight whole jugs of that whiskey and commenced to 
doing the highland dance. 

[At this point, my friend Josh (who played the guitar for me whilst I 
 did this) would change key and start playing Scotland the Brave (he
 is a Scot) and humming the tune in a nasal voice for effect all the
 way through the following paragraph except for the last four words.]

   Now the highland dance is quite simple. You have to turn to the left, 
kick with the right, turn to the right, kick to the left, spin all the 
way round, slip, fall down, snort, twist, grunt, break your nose, it was 
so simple, like the Caidan measure, that it completely evaded me. 
   And after about an hour of this nonsense we had worked ourselves up 
into a tumultuous uproar, after which I laid myself down for some 
tremulous dreams. (I think the Queen of the West was in one of them... 
great big Norman breasts.) 
   And when I woke up. (I didn't want to wake up.... I was.... trapped 
in a Spanish convent.) When I woke up.... 

   God's little lanterns were still twinkling on and off in the heavens. 
   God's yellow moon was still shining down on the cool clear evening.  
   I looked around, and.... no one to be found.
   It seemed that my brother the Scot, was missing.
   And, you know what else, lords and ladies....
   So was the still.

(Bring down the twelve-bar talking blues riff to signal the end of the 
story. `Cause for some reason, without it, no one seems to know when 
you've finished...)