The Adventures of Kilt Guy, Part II

I wasn't going to blog about this, because I'm trying to be a nicer person, at least to strangers, by trying to give them the benefit of the doubt(it's my way of reconciling with the fact that I think people are idiots from 7-3:30, Mon-Fri, you know, the whole "don't take your work home with you" mantra).

Saturday, as I was heading out of my house to go to my friend's b-day party, I was walking down my block when a couple who had apparently just left the nearby Cuban restaurant came walking towards me. They were talking, rather loudly(alcohol does tend to make people deaf) and naturally, when you're walking down a darkish street in Chicago in February and you see a bald man in a kilt wearing a sportcoat, the conversation turned to your humble narrator. This is when I overheard the very directed comment of "freak."

I'm not one to take insults from idiots, but I'm also not one to not defend my honor. This made for a perplexing situation to me. The following is the retort that my mind's eye saw happening, which undoubtedly would have resulted in fisticuffs:

I apologize if you think I'm freakish for wearing the traditional clothing of my ancestors. Just because it doesn't match the grey shirts with red, white and black armbands that your ancestors wore, doesn't mean I'm a freak.

Fortunately, my urge to beat him down subsided. This is for the best, as I was wearing my infamous shitkickers.

The only other person to make fun of me(at least that I could see) was a woman driving down Ashland Avenue as I jaywalked across, who really had nothing to laugh at, as she was in a small car with 6 kids. She wasn't too pretty, either.

All my friends called me words like "dashing," "handsome," "sexy," and even "hot."

Yeah.