next time i'm wearing a helmet

it is a tradition to hold a dinner [read: a scotch fueled party] in memory of the scottish poet robert burns [1759-1796]. there is the drinking of scotch, and the eating of haggis; after trying three different types of haggis, i have to report to all you nay-sayers that the stuff is really good. nothing like that blood pudding/black sausage crap, which is what i was expecting. there is much toasting and reading of the dead man's poetry and there is music- we were serenaded by a very talented man with bagpipes and a local band. there was dancing, then there was wrestling and then there was fighting. fun fighting, but fighting nonetheless. big guys full of scotch fighting, big guys who don't know their own strength. i know i had a good time and i know wasn't that drunk, but i woke up the next morning, found two good sized lumps on my head and could not remember the latter part of the evening. getting hit in the head is worse than getting really sloshed. it's better on the ol' liver, it may be a good excuse for acting like an idiot, forgetting everyone's name and repeating conversations, but it doesn't wear off after a day of drinking water and feeling sorry for yourself, i've got the lumps to prove it.