A Scot at Scott's Whatnot

Horsehockey V - Episode 567

“Bears in Scotland?” says one funeral-goer to a man dressed in nothing but a kilt who just wandered out of the fog a moment ago.

“Aye, lassy,” says the man in a keen highland drawl. “They coom froom Greenland.”

“Greenland!?” the funeral-goer baffles. “But how?”

“I imagine they swim.”

“Well there are some native varieties left, surely?”

The Scot ponders. Meanwhile, the bears have mauled, disemboweled, molested, eaten, and been all around Godless marauding monsters to a substantial number of minor characters and even one major character (Lava Man). Their cries of terror echo through the misty moors of yore (‘yore’ is good word to use if you’re some kind of like, writer person or whatever) , fading off into distant glens and bonny dales and what have yous and foggy whatnots and bloody whatevers. “We do ‘ave sheep. That I’m sure uf. And, uh, I think we got hens, too. And goats! A few Welsh baby smugglers and even a Spaniard or too, I reckon.”

“Fascinating.” The funeral-goer, who we’ll just call Will, for Christ’s sake… “But I’m a girl!” Will feebly protests. Too late, WILL. ANYWAY, the funeral goer, who for Christ’s sake we’ll just call Will, even though ‘she’s a girl’, as she so obnoxiously put it, then asks; “Is it true? You know….what they say?”

The Scot shrugs his pasty white shoulders. “I don’t know, lassy. What do they say, then?”

“About Scotish men.” She gestures at his thick, woolen kilt. “You know…”

The Scot winks knowingly. “Oh I got ye.” He lifts up his kilt and and dangles his uglies for all to see.

Will gazes at the horror of it, ensorcelled by it’s sheer unadulterated vileness and absolute evil. “Well, there’s my answer. That’s absolutely the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I think I might have just gone lesbo. And I see you really are a redhead. Um. Okay, you can put that down now.”

“Oooh, ye donnae want me to shake it about?” At that, the Scot begins enthusiatically gyrating his hips, causing his floppy no-no to flop about in all of it’s floppiness.

“Oh. No. Oh, God. Please. Please stop. Okay, that’s enough…Oh wow….” Eventually the bears clear out, dragging away their (in some cases still screaming) victims back into the forest of yore. No one really seems that phased by it. They’re really taking it remarkably well. In fact, after a short recess of punch and cookies, they’re back at it full force, mourning the death of Scott I suppose. Next up to bat!

  1. From some obscure storyline in Game 3, it's a pudding monster!
  2. From deep within the depths of hell, it's the fifth Shoggoth!
  3. From sometime between 1939-1945, it's Adolf Hitler!
  4. From the forest moon of Endor, it's Chewbacca!
  5. From the suburbs of Toledo, it's some guy named Jack!
  6. From 3:30-5:30 it's happy hour at Bob's Goodtime Lounge!

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Lord Reaibn Daenorth (credit to Ib)

6/7/2019 1:47:27 AM

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