Travels with Bob’s
Your Uncle—Scotland
by Bob Iozzia
Hey, gang. How’s
it hangin’?
Today, I’m in Koala Bear Lampoon, where the
cotton is high and the livin’ is sleazy. JK,
I’m somewhere in Scotland, where I don’t
understand very much of what the locals say. As
far as I know, I just bought a butterscotch farm
and am engaged to a barmaid named Wkxqptmn
Hootmon.
Anyway, in spite of the Scots not speaking
American, I’m having a decent enough time.
The countryside is blanketed by a glowing fog
from the bogs, which I swear is tartan plaid in
color. This is pretty cool and flashes back
memories of some trips I took in the 60s, but
that’s another story for another time.
Many of the locals appear to be warm and friendly.
Apparently, it is customary to greet a stranger
with a hardy handshake and a slap on the back. I’ve
met so many people on this trip that my right
hand looks like a sock puppet and most of my back
pimples have been popped.
When I greet a Scot with, “Nice to meet you.
How are you?” a typical reply is, “Fgvdl
xvzwp qnbbtg,” which translates to either
“Better than me Gram, who still be dead”
or “Be truthful, Yank, do me kilts make me
cholesterol look high?”
And the food leaves a lot to be desired (like
good food), at least as far as this pizza-loving,
hamburger boy is concerned. A dish these people
seem to cream over is haggis, which should be
called puke in a nut sac. As near as I can tell
without actually sampling any, it is a bull
testicle stuffed to the gills with rotting sheep
organs and wych elm sawdust. Yum. Not.
Sports are popular here, but they are not real
sports like baseball, (American) football and
cornhole (the one played outside with beanbags,
not the one performed inside among consenting
adults). The “sport” that gives them
the biggest woodrow is giant pole tossing,
officially called Nmxsdgtrq or something like
that. The object is to throw a tree as far as
possible without landing on the thrower’s
feet or rupturing his bowels. FYI, women don’t
partake in this “sport” because they
have too much common sense.
I think these “sportsmen” are beginning
to like me because they want me to be the pole
catcher, which they swear on their mothers’
zcvbqpooks is an honor. I don’t know why
they laughed like maniacs being tickled with live
chickens when they offered, but an honor is an
honor to have and one to be honored.
Well, tomorrow it’s sayonara to Scotland and
(hopefully) hello to a place where they speak
American and serve normal food a normal person
can keep down on a normal basis.
FYI, I have not met one Scot named Scott.
So, until next time from another exotic location,
take it slow … and don’t take any
wooden haggis.
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