A scottish old timer in scotland, in a bar, talks to a young man.
old man:
“lad, look out there to the field. do yaw see that fence? look how well it’s
built. i built that fence stone by stone with me
own two hands, piled it for months. but do they call me
mcgregor-the-fence-builder? nook.”
then the old man gestured at the bar.
“look here at the bar. do yaw see how smooth and just it is? i planed that
surface down by me own aching’ back. i carved that
wood with me own hard labor, for eight days. but do they call me
mcgregor-the-bar-builder?
nook…”
then the old man points out the window.
“eh, lady, look out to sea. do yaw see that pier that stretches out as far as
the eye can see? i built that pier with the
sweat off me back. i nailed it board by board. but do they call me
mcgregor-the-pier-builder? nook… ”
then the old man looks around nervously, trying to make sure no one is paying
attention.
“but yaw f*** one sheep . . . “