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Travels with Bob’s Your Uncle—Scotland
by Bob Iozzia

Hey, gang. How’s it hangin’?
Today, I’m in Koala Bear Lampoon, where the cotton is high and the livin’ is sleazy. JK, I’m somewhere in Scotland, where I don’t understand very much of what the locals say. As far as I know, I just bought a butterscotch farm and am engaged to a barmaid named Wkxqptmn Hootmon.
Anyway, in spite of the Scots not speaking American, I’m having a decent enough time. The countryside is blanketed by a glowing fog from the bogs, which I swear is tartan plaid in color. This is pretty cool and flashes back memories of some trips I took in the 60s, but that’s another story for another time.
Many of the locals appear to be warm and friendly. Apparently, it is customary to greet a stranger with a hardy handshake and a slap on the back. I’ve met so many people on this trip that my right hand looks like a sock puppet and most of my back pimples have been popped.
When I greet a Scot with, “Nice to meet you. How are you?” a typical reply is, “Fgvdl xvzwp qnbbtg,” which translates to either “Better than me Gram, who still be dead” or “Be truthful, Yank, do me kilts make me cholesterol look high?”
And the food leaves a lot to be desired (like good food), at least as far as this pizza-loving, hamburger boy is concerned. A dish these people seem to cream over is haggis, which should be called puke in a nut sac. As near as I can tell without actually sampling any, it is a bull testicle stuffed to the gills with rotting sheep organs and wych elm sawdust. Yum. Not.
Sports are popular here, but they are not real sports like baseball, (American) football and cornhole (the one played outside with beanbags, not the one performed inside among consenting adults). The “sport” that gives them the biggest woodrow is giant pole tossing, officially called Nmxsdgtrq or something like that. The object is to throw a tree as far as possible without landing on the thrower’s feet or rupturing his bowels. FYI, women don’t partake in this “sport” because they have too much common sense.
I think these “sportsmen” are beginning to like me because they want me to be the pole catcher, which they swear on their mothers’ zcvbqpooks is an honor. I don’t know why they laughed like maniacs being tickled with live chickens when they offered, but an honor is an honor to have and one to be honored.
Well, tomorrow it’s sayonara to Scotland and (hopefully) hello to a place where they speak American and serve normal food a normal person can keep down on a normal basis.
FYI, I have not met one Scot named Scott.
So, until next time from another exotic location, take it slow … and don’t take any wooden haggis.