On the run with the Scottish Resistance

T.S. Eliot was wrong. October truly is the cruelest month. As dawn broke over the lowlands of Scotland, a scene of devastation was revealed that no living person can recall. Not since the great siege of Edinburgh of 1543, has man laid such waste to the town of Edinburgh. Not until last night…

It began harmlessly enough in the tasting room of the Scottish Whisky Experience, a mere stone’s throw from the gates of the castle. It ended on the fairway of the 16th hole at Dulmahoy. That’s where I awoke, surrounded by passed out Scottish women, dressed in black bikini tops, red kilts, and green knee high stockings. It was a hell of a party. A bacchanalian debauchery of such epic proportions that my head still hurts recalling what little of the events that I can.

The fun began when the building was stormed by these masked women declaring themselves to be part of the Scottish resistance.   A little known splinter group of some anarchist organization bent upon pouring Scotch down the throats of unsuspecting foreign men. Alas, I was but one of their willing victims. After about the 5th Whisky I was forced into the trunk of a Trabant, and driven deep into the countryside where they took turns drinking whisky from my dimples.  Had they not passed out around 2 am, I shudder to think what might have become of me. But as day dawned over the course, and the first golfers started playing through, I saw my chance to escape, and ran quickly back to my room in time enough to shower and dress for the meetings.

Entering the conference room the ashen faces of my colleagues made me recall a scene from the Night of the Living Dead. I assumed that the place had been overrun with Zombies while I was off with the lassies of the Scottish resistance, but no, it was merely hung over Brits. The air wafting through the meeting room was at least 80 proof. The fumes pouring out their bodies were strong enough to peel the wallpaper off of the walls. Then someone turned on the projector, and a spark ignited the air, leveling the building, and throwing me into a nearby bunker on the 18th green. I lay there unconscious for a few minutes, before the smell of whisky brought me around. The good lassies of the Scottish resistance were tending my wounds.

The hotel a smoking ruin, and the grounds crawling with army soldiers, I looked out and surveyed the ruin of my career. It was all gone in a flash. With nothing but my Blackberry and the clothes on my back, I decided to join up with the resistance. I figure their cause is more noble than enslaving the exploited workers of the world for my dark corporate overlords. So I am typing this blog from an undisclosed location, somewhere deep in the maze of alleys in the Edinburgh old town, where I am being fitted with a kilt, and trained in the dark arts of Scotch distilling. I am sure my extensive Powerpoint skills will be put to great use in the revolution.

Viva la Revolution!

13 thoughts on “On the run with the Scottish Resistance

    • You have no idea how close I came to asking my boss to take a picture of me laying down in the gutter last night. If she had any sense of humor, I’d have done it.

      Although, now that I think about it, the fact that she keeps me around as eye candy might mean she has a sense of humor after all.

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