Who's bad enough to throw this dude out? Me.
Everybody knows the Scottish Highland Games are for a special breed of badass. They may not be much on cardiovascular, they may not have six-pack abs, but you don’t want to fuck with them. They scream a lot. They pick up heavy shit and throw it. They drink a lot. They wear skirts with no drawers underneath and tend to show people their junk when they get their swerve on.
That’s where I come in. I’m a bouncer at Shillelagh’s Public House, located in downtown Scotland, Connecticut.
“You can’t do that shit in here,” I say. “Scottish Highland Games or no. This is a family establishment.”
“That’s how Scottish Highlanders roll, motherfucker. Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m the motherfucker telling you to cover your dick, finish your drink, pay your tab, and go.”
“What are you gonna…”
That’s when I punch them in the balls.
Most of the time, there’s really no reasoning with those dumb sons of bitches.
And while they’re attending to their wounded junk, I tally-ho their asses out into the street.
Because that’s how I roll.
