A Fine Summer Day
By PR Henriksen
I sat drinking me single malt whisky taking wee breaks to exercise me bagpipes whilst the rather short, pointy-eared lad played golf in the glorious, green glen.
He was wee. And by wee, I mean tiny. Standing straight up, the wee lad came almost up to the base of the ears of a hare, who also stood by to watch him play. The lad was trying to play a round of golf with a rock and a fossilized thistle. He claimed to be some sort of Highland monarch, but when he missed a shot and his wee rock landed with a mighty raucous splash in the loch, he let loose a string of Gaelic insults the likes of which caused the local forest to quake.
I took another swig, contemplating on if he was one of the Sleagh Maith or their opposite. Upon experiencing his extensive range of perfectly ancient Gaelic invectives, I couldn't exactly call him good.
"And Monarchs have castles, clans, and properly displayed tartans Lad!"
He stared at me long enough for me to register the sparkling mischief in his wee bonnie blue eyes, then he turned abruptly and lifted his wee kilt to the heavens. Which exposed me to his eye-stunning white buttocks, and his natural born club and balls.
I slapped my knee and laughed until my sides were ready to split. He turned back to face me, laughing hisself into a tizzy as well and took a bow. Then looking quite serious, he said, "Play it again Dougal!", and I put me drinking glass down, picked up me pipes, and started again.
Truly a more magnificent summer day could not've happened by accident, alcohol, nor amiable gnome.
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