Charles McKeithan

The Kilt: Weapon of Peace

We sat in our circle of friends and hashed out the evening. It was de-brief time. All was well that ended well, and if the worst part of the event was that my counter part got a little too into his part and bit me on the shoulder (leaving a mark to explain to the wife) then it was still a good night. I tucked into my plate of Denny’s Lumberjack Special. We discussed the victory of an artistic success that was even a profitable one. This is not always the Case with PEERS. Ballroom Dance does not lend itself to high profit. But our particular brand has its own special flavor that gives spice to what the young fear is a bland salad. As evidence, this was the Green Man Ball. If you haven’t watched the movie The Wicker Man, you simply must. And DO NOT over read this web site which will kill the plot for you if you haven’t seen it.

So it’s now 2:45 in the A.M. and I am comfortably digging through the last of my plate without a care for the stray bits of food that have landed in the lap of my kilt, when without the least warning, my lungs shut off and every muscle in my body makes for a leap to go for the throat of a nearby patron.

Fear not gentle reader, I am not Anthony Perkins looking to start a hotel chain of one. Sometimes old habits die hard and some instincts never really settle back down to the dark firmament they came from.

Three men had just entered my field of vision and before my conscious cerebellum had even shifted the ocular nerves to focus properly, several lower level nerve endings had already prepped me for a fight. In that split second of recognition, I knew everything I cared to know about them.

1. They were at variable states of drunk.
2. They had all the wrong tattoo marks to be out on a sabbatical from the Mormon all night prayer meet.
3. Two of the three had not gotten lucky at the club and were apparently hoping that the San Mateo Denny’s had something to offer in the way of an easy side order of slickery gash.
4. Two wrong words or one wrong look and they would be ready to brawl.

I started merry into my last portion of hash fries. The beauty to my left handed me a second plate of bacon, sausage, and something brownish with bits of black.

Now, I should warn the gentle reader also that the PEERS crew is very very intelligent, but that has never stopped us from also being incredibly easy on the eyes. I was in the company of a half dozen buxom belles that would set any sober heterosexual man to walking with a noticeable list to one side in a matter of seconds. And we are nowhere near shy about erotic debates about the pros and cons of spitting verses swallowing.
On the more masculine side of things, I new that if it came to a fight, we were well in the odds of things. I was in the company of a scientist who is rabidly protective when it comes to his loved ones, a mortician who had earlier that evening left a half crescent welt on me during a staged argument, and a reclusive intellectual who likely knows sixteen ways to break your nose with a paperclip and does NOT like to be interrupted from his chosen task of the moment. And that was just the boys. These are intelligent women. They are knockouts in corsets and thigh highs. They are also all of them deadly to the last fashion accessory. It would be more likely the men’s job to scrape the remains of the offending adversaries off of the floor while our darling companions went to the powder room to adjust stays, reset ribbons and scrub the DNA out from under their nails.
But nothing screws up a good after-party meal like a painful encounter with drunken idiots so I shifted my position at the table to move my back away from the hombre’s and continued with my self gorging.
Tan Plaid was Mr. lucky. His girl of the moment was with them for their sober up breakfast and she was burbling and flashing cleavage at the three of them in good fashion. She would have been fun to play eye tag with on an ordinary night but this was just serious enough that I thought better of it. Tan Plaid was oldest and soberest (probably why he got lucky) and I noted that he sat on the outside edge of the booth giving him control over his unfortunate buddies.
Red Plaid was my problem though. Just short of puking drunk, his glassy eyes couldn’t pick which set of tits to try and focus on. Lucky him, he was getting four per girl. More to my concern, he had a very hard handle shaped bulge about six inches up from the bottom hem of his pant leg. Back to the plus side though, he’d probably pass out trying to bend over to get the knife out long before anyone would have to go near him.

I finished plate number three of my friends’ left-overs.

It dawned on me. The evening would be fine. Out of the corner of my eye I could see confused giggly looks and glances from the whole crew of them and then bingo; it all came clear.

God Bless the Kilt. Women adore it. Men are frightened by it. Drunkards simply cannot compute the concept of it. Red Plaid was loving the fair flesh at our table but couldn’t get over my naked kneecaps and lack of an inseam. We ended our discussion over which band would be best for the big November event, paid our check and gave lavish, breast filled hugs farewell to each other. As a precaution, the gentlemen made sure the ladies made it to their cars without incident, but in the back of my mind, I almost regretted the ease of our escape.

I would love an excuse to try a reverse jump side kick while regimental in Tartan.

Posted by cmckeithan at May 4, 2004 12:51 AM