Okay, so the title above isn't a terrific translation. It's "You can't take our CHRISTMAS!" ...supposed to be said with a Scottish accent. Yeah, whatever. Until I figure out how to do the Podcast thing, you'll have to read my words.
It was inspired by a Christmas party we went to recently where one of the men was wearing a kilt. It was...odd. We hear that he's been doing it for the last decade or so, but it was our first foray into his skirt-hood and we were...mesmerized. Of course the others in the room made the typical comments about not letting any breezes catch him the wrong way and muttering about if it's TRUE what's worn beneath. I'm assuming he handled them well. WE didn't comment of course. Prolly cause we were speechless. He was close to SIXTY. And, you know, with that age comes...wrinkles and interesting...hair...and I just...I don't need to SEE that. I should NOT know what a sixty-year-old man's pale and hairy knees look like.
Aside from the skirt, it was a room full of developers and engineers, so you can probably imagine that, even though we were surrounded by brilliant minds and great personalities, people were still oddly reserved and stuck to their chairs like glue. At one point, the D.J. (whose company name was hysterically unoriginal and provided me and K. with ...minutes of snarky laughter) decided to force people onto the dance floor and a group of women (many of them much older) obliged. One person was hopping inexplicably the entire time. Just...yanno...hopping. And then the D.J. announced that the next song was a DOOZY and we had all better catch the spirit that this song never fails to inspire and get out there n' DANCE!
With bated breath we edged to the corners of our seats, waiting to be moved by The Spirit, ready to wiggle n' shit. And then the song played. And it was..."Raining Men". And not a ONE of us budged. But we did giggle at the ...dancing... taking place. Dancing which, for a few minutes, became a circle of older women holding hands and hopping. ...I wish I knew. Then George leaned over and asked how much I'd pay him to run out onto the dance floor, arms flailing wildly over his head, screaming like a little girl, and dancing like a freak, mimicking the hopping lady for good measure. I offered him, in all seriousness, ninety-five THOUSAND dollars, but he apparently can't be bought for so piddly a price. Shame.
The Dancing D.J., who was now teaching people the Electric Slide and the Macarena, was just too much for us Mean People, and we didn't want to be RUDE, so we turned our attention back to the kilt at this point. We were told that Skirt Man was something like a seventh-generation McCloud and immensely proud of his lineage. Which is cool and I would be, too. And no, we didn't make a scene. He was at a different table and the only incident (at the party, anyway) was when George, after a couple of drinks, caused a few people at our table to spit broccoli soup out of their noses when he suddenly announced to the table that he was going to run home and grab The Kiddo's Renaissance Festival sword, come back, park himself at the opposite end of the dance floor from Kilt Dude, squat down and waggle the sword in his direction and challenge him with the following phrase: (which he whisper-yelled to all of us): "McClooooood! Thar can be only ONE! FIGHT, ya BASTAHD!!!"
And I thought that would be the end of it.
I'm rarely right when contemplating the lengths my husband will go to for a giggle...even if, in the end, it's only for him and we're just caught in the cheek-cramp-inducing hysteria.
Once we were in the car on our way home, he couldn't contain himself. Listed below is a sampling of my ride-home musical joy, courtesy of George, Highlander, and Brave Heart. I actually, at one point, called K., and left her a voicemail, begging for her to save me, while he was yelling these things in the background. The Kiddo, who we had to leave the party early for to pick him up, secretly recorded some of George's ...performance and plays it periodically, then laughs like a loon.
NB: I will be typing the phrases below in the Scottish accent he delivered them in. Do your best to read them phonetically and forgive us both for...whatever.
"Yew may take ah lahnd, but yew weel nev-uh take...AHHH...CHUH-DISS-MUS!!"
"McClood! Yuh doo-uhnt war a keelt to a CHRISMUSS PAH-TEEEEE!"
Note: each couple was given an iPod at the door of this party. How cool is THAT?? VERY, I tell ya. That point factors in to the next burst of George Joy: "McCloooood! Hahnd ovuh yuh iPooood uhn ahll layt yuh LIVE!"
"Thuh keelt vuz enoof! tha coomb ovuh KEELZ eet, mahn!"
Still in the accent: "Fuhzizzle mah neezle!" (note: I don't know...had NOTHING to do with ANYTHING...)
Said in a deep and amused tone: "YUH SUHN-UVV-A-BEETCH!" (This was spattered throughout the entire 45 minute ride home...never more than 7 seconds of silence and if it approached the 7 second mark without anything being said? "YUH SUHN-UVV-A-BEETCH!" was just TOSSED in there.)
Also he seemed to love the prickly, growled form of "Yuh BASTAHD!! HAR-HAR!" and yelled that frequently. He didn't discriminate, either. *I* got it, other drivers got it...even The Kiddo got it at one point.
We then talked some more about the weird dancing and this set off a new set of outbursts such as:
"McCloooood! Yuh CAHN'T TOACH THEE-USS!" and "WHOOO LUT THUH DOGS OOOOT!?"
And then, much to my horror, I joined in: "McClooood! Pooot DOWN yo-uh CHEEEKUN KIEV! Step AWAY from zee Electreeek Sliiiiide!" and I complained to him appropriately: "Oh dear GOD! You've got ME DOING IT NOW!"
I called someone else and found that I was leaving the message in GEORGE'S Scottish accent because he was yelling in the background and...I'm retarded I guess.
George then decided that I'd waited too long to light him a cigarette (have I mentioned our oh-so-sweet gestures wherein whoever is the passenger lights the cancer-sticks for both of us? Yeah. We're just damned cute, aren't we?) Anyway. He had waited long enough and yelled out: "Whars mee SMOKE, ya daft BEETCH??" Course...he got his smoke, and it was burned into his CHEEK.
Kidding. I raised my eyebrows, tossed HIS cigarette out the window, and stared at him with appropriate Piss Off. He looked over and saw my Angry Face and laughed and said (in his NORMAL voice for the first time in an hour): "Sorry. It just...fit."
Does it now?
He kept it up for quite a while after that, especially after we picked up The Kiddo and even when they went into Starbucks, but my hand hurt at that point and I couldn't keep up the transcription. Also because I was laughing too hard. It really does get funnier the longer he goes on. Punch-drunk, I think it's called.
The bad news? George AND The Kiddo are doing it now. Each day, at least once a day, they both just randomly yell out "McCloud!!!!" and then some other odd phrase along with it.
Merry Christmas, y'all! It certainly has been for me!
