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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!
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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 |
