Arthur Conan Doyle
Three men walked into a bar; an American, a Cimmerian, and an Irishman.
“I used to be the richest man in the State,” one mumbled. “But my family took all my money just because I kept a happy buzz on all the time and wanted to marry a poor girl.”
“I trod the jewelled thrones of the world beneath my sandaled feet,” the massively muscled second man boomed mournfully. “I crushed my enemies and heard the lamentations of their women. But then my beloved Valeria died.”
“Huh!” said the Irishman. “Think you’ve got worries? I have to work with Angel.”