The Saga of Laird Og

Laird Og & the Holstein Mantel

'Tis time, oh mine kinders, for the long overdue tale of Laird Og and the Holstein Mantel. Now for this one, I must beg the humble pardon of my fellow Absentians, as I'm gonna smoke in the friggin' hoose wi'out so much as a crack for ventilation (which is normally geschroomt verboten).

Ah gut, I have settled in right proper with a jar of salty legumes to me right and 'pon me left a frosty pike which has been unstoppered by the official three stooges electronical talking top popper that says "How 'bout a beer?" "Soitainly!" (Phsssst!) "Nyuk nyuk nyuk nyuk! Woo woo woo woo! Woo woo woo woo!

* * *

'Twas late one froggy night in ancient Caledonia when who should stumble stinking as a polecat from his cozy lodge on the boggy moor? None other than the good Laird Og (who as we well know hasn't the good sense to stay home toasting his one good toe by the peat fire on a cold, froggy night)! God himself knows what mischief the devil put in old Og's melon that night, but as legend has it, he'd set upon having some congress with the chattles of the clan. So, out he went into the deepest dank chill, with no more regard for his health than the staunchest warrior on the noblest quest.

Wandered he for hours, in a powerful confusion of liquor, until the first sickly pallor of dawn. Finally, and with his one good toe frozen to the bone, he happened upon a likely bovine. Pied black and white she was, e'er so as the Moscow Mardi Gras.

"Cow," begins our sodden Laird, "Ay wuild hae speaks wi' thee!"

To which the beast replied "Mooo!" As was its wont.

Being a Scot, the Laird would not brook such insolence upon his mere greeting, and he cautioned the errant animal, saying: "Have a care, beastie, and mind your flippant tongue!"

The cow, nonplussed, proceeded to hoist its tail a mite and make flop, accompanied by some wind. Who among us, I ask, could stand any more? None you say, and certainly not Og the Irascible, whose patience has been tried by a flea! With his own bare fist he smote the cow a wholesome blow, square between its vapid eyes. And do you know what happened then? Bubkus!


The cow stood just as before, as though the Laird had never left the comfort of his peat fire to do a vexation upon her! This reaction brought upon the Laird a sensation of impotence which irked him for 3.7 seconds. Then he forgot about it, because he was drunk. Very drunk indeed.

What he could not forget was that he was in the middle of nowhere, clad in his nightdress, and he seemed to be face down in a cow pat. Cold. Wet. Numb. Probably going to die from losing a one-sided fight with a cow. Something had to be done.

The self preservation instinct clawed its way through his muzzy brain and gave him a shock of humour that put him on his feet and sobered him instantly (bloody rude thing to do to a Scot, eh?). There was no shelter about, only a stunned cow.

This next part of the story should be carefully noted, as it illustrates the grave danger of being anywhere near a sober Scotsman. A hair's breadth from death by exposure, Laird Og laid the beef over and opened its belly with a single thrust of his frozen, unkempt claws.

By now, the cow was no longer nonplussd. It was very plussed, without a doubt. In its plussedness, it howled as only a disemboweled cow can howl. The disemboweled cow howl echoed eerily in the frosty glen as Laird Og entered the inwards of his unfortunate opponent.

Gruesome though it be, the story has a happy and funny end. Not so much for the cow, because the cow died horribly on a cold, froggy night, during which it was unhappy even before the arrival of a drunk idiot. The happy end is that Laird Og did not die of exposure.

The funny bit is that by accident, Laird Og made his way southward in the cow's giblets to end up peeking out of its bung for want of air, and that was how his ken found him 'roundabout noon the following day.

Well, there was a feasting on the cow and a bit of a cover-up about the circumstances until it was decided that there was no point, since the Laird had no shame anyway.

 Now, when you see the Laird step out of his groundwart at tourney, and he's adorned in his Holstein mantel, just try to suppress the giggles. It's not polite to larf at the nobility.

--details supplied by Laird Og, himself

Last modified: October 01, 2005

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