The birth of the brew crew

I wish I could allow comments, but am having some issues…  I met Jeff Stottsberry Sr. in 1996.  This week was the 12th year since he passed.  He was in some bad shape medically, on a respirator, but one of the funniest SOB’s I ever met.  I buddied up with his son (Jeff Jr., for the slow) and my best friend Honk.  He never slept, so he saw us in all our drunken glory trying to make up lies about some mystery DD that happened to park my 1989 Chevy Celebrity in his backyard sideways.  As we walked in, we would hear things such as “Oh look, it’s the Brew Crew.  Where’s the women?  Oh, there are none b/c you fat drunks can’t get any pussy!  Congratulations!”  The constant beratings came from one sarcastic m’fer, but he was always full of good advice.  Some dude was banging my g/f and I told him about it once.  Instead of giving me the stock father advice of “Well, she’s not worth it,” he said, “Why haven’t you beat his ass yet?”  Good call, Stotts Sr.  I’ll pound a beer with you on the other side.  To this day, me and the boys call ourselves the Brew Crew.  We can outdrink, outjoke, and outsarcasm any five sons of bitches that see the sun rise in the east.