Ganging Aft Agley

“Burns Supper” is what I do, more often than one would think, because I am so easily distra—SQUIRREL! It is also a traditional Scottish Celebration held in late January around the birthday of Scotland's National Bard, Robert Burns, to celebrate his poems, including the ode he wrote to lice (I love him for this) (it’s actually an ode to one louse, but there is no such thing as one louse as anyone who has ever had children can likely attest).

Anyway, in this poem, the speaker sees one of what is no doubt an emissary of 1 million trillion lice climbing across the bonnet of a fine lady, and he berates it, because why is the lice troubling someone fancy lady when there are so many poors around? Burns is mocking vanity and making a point about the egalitarian nature of vermin, and I love this poem, and I wanted to go to a Burns Supper WHERE THEY DO A BIG PRESENTATION OF A HAGGIS AND THEN IT IS STABBED AND YOU EAT IT, THE HAGGIS, WITH YOUR MOUTH, but the Burns society near me doesn’t allow lady-style humans to attend, because we ruin everything. Apparently. How can the fellas enjoy over-scotching themselves while free-balling in plaid if non-penis-havers invade?

Can’t be done, and may alllllll the egalitarian lice make their itchy, eggy their way unto the kilt-exposed nethers of these men, amen.

So we went to Spillian, this cool-ass little inn in the Catskills with 8 themed bedrooms (I liked the Jules Verne and Secret Garden rooms a lot, but could not deny the GIANT OAK BED in the Camelot room) and had Burns Supper there. I forgot boots, and could not go out and revel in the snow. My friend who invited us also forgot boots, but she tied Hefty bags on her feet and went out to gambol, and slid down a big hill, and accidentally ejected her phone far away into a random snow-bank, and only caught herself from tumbling down the whole dang mountain by whanging crotch first into a tree, and my GOD Best Beloveds, but I love this woman, who came up sputtering, “NO RAGERTS!”

We read poetry, and learned about the evolution of Tartan, and more than half the gents decided to kilt up, and a fella from Edinburgh taught us how to talk in a Scotch accent, and half of us sounded Irish and half sounded like, SHE CANNAE DO ET CAPTAIN, but it was fun, and we invented our own Tartans using those LOOMS from summer camp, you know the ones, where you make potholders?

My Tartan is based on the Scooby Doo Mystery Machine. Scott’s is based on “reasonable colors he likes.”

Then we sat down at the table and a haggis was presented, and I had been told it would be FINE, like, meaty oatmeal, but it was NOT fine, and it was more like Livery-Liver-Meal in cloying flakes that MELT disconcertingly and I do not want meat to do that, thank you.

Look, a nice table, and nice people, and a Haggis. Someone stab it again.

Luckily there was also steak with bourbon-bacon jam (!!!!!) and also insanely good vegetarian pot pies and roasted root veg and salad and rolls and a dessert made mostly out of liquor, and after had a tipsy haggis throwing contest, and we lost, but then the kilted up gents did a Bonny Knees contest, and my ‘scrutiating hot smoke show of a husband, to the surprise of no one that is me, WON.

I think his triumph surprised soem of the younger fellas, but they had not taken three things into account:

1. His theatre background that allowed him to shamelessly slut it up.

2. His shameless wife hose theatre background drove her to hoot and cheer like a wild thing for him.

3. His knees are bonny AF.

We also wrote odes. To our dogs. Which i am not posting here because they are scatological and niche —- unless you want them? Let me know.

ANYWAY 10 out of TEN would recommend. I have to go do dumb stuff now, BUT COME SEE ME ON TOUR?

If you cannot make it because you foolishly chose to live in Florida or France or somesuch, you can preorder from your local, or pre-order a SIGNED COPY or a regular copy to any of the places linked here, right on my Splash page.

MORE LATER!