Art of Defence

I've taken up swordplay lately. Not like those prancy-fat-boy-D&D -Trekkie-SCA-duct-tape-is-period era-losers, oh HELL no. I've found a group of people who train in the real deal. That's for me, turkeys. No half-assin' about it. True martial arts. From the West, even.
After class, which consists of rapier and sidesword on Wednesdays; longsword and grappling on Thursdays, we go to Mr. Lucky's for beer. $4.50 pitchers. Damn, have I made it to heaven? Learn how to kill with edged weapons, then go drink. What the Hell is there to cry about? I may have to change the whole look of this blog if things keep going this way. There's even a large, unexplainable sum of money in my checking account. I was down to about $100 or less to get me to next Friday and now there's almost $400! What the fuck, people?!
This can only mean I'm going to end up with syphilis. Or wind up piloting a wheelchair by blowing into a straw. Maybe a little from column A and a little from column B. I DID run over a carpet nail and had to patch the front tire of my bike. A breeze compared to the nail in the tire of my truck earlier this week.
I guess in order to keep this in line, I will confide in you all that I've always wanted to die in a sword fight. So I guess I'm training for my own death.
I hope somebody brings a video camera.