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9:15 a.m. - 2003-09-16
An ode to kilts.
Never wear a boobie shirt to your friend's sister's birthday party. There might be old people to offend. Or maybe not, but it was still weird having the girlies on display with Mr. Sully and the uncles/aunts about. Kinda funny too. I fell in love with Uncle B.

Uncle B. walked up to me and said, "I guess you're wondering what a bunch of old farts is doing here?" I say, "I thought you were the cool ones!" He says, "Cool? Honey, we're almost dead!"

What's not to love? Sully's dad treated us to tales of farts and jumping over pews, drinking too much of communion wine and bursting out into hysterical laughter while serving at a funeral. Sully, of course.

So, its not something he developed while attending one of the top 100 small colleges in the U.S.. He was born with it.

We moved on to fest the next day. I was the DD, and so was able to observe the assholery that is my precious little group. They revelled, they drank, they made rude comments to the faces of strangers. Sully was a dear, and pointed out kilted men that I might have missed. And my... they were few, but mighty. I got a picture of the backside of a large, yet, alas, married kit wearer. It'll make our cruise-girl in Wyoming grin.

Then Sixweasels and I had a vision. It came in the form of tall, long brown haired pirate type who blew away Jack Sparrow in my estimation. I drooled like a puppy as he walked by. And the walk was just right. I could swear he might be the hottest thing I've ever seen in person. No shirt, long black overcoat, tight pants and boots. Dear god!

So, fest was all it promised to be. And will be again this weekend when I get to be the asshole instead of the observer. We'll leave that up to Mr. Weasel this time.


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