There was this wee ferret. He thought it was still the Muirhead of the 1960s – the glory years. But it wisnae. Those years wir long gone. Place was now a shitehole, but he was none the wiser.
He was taking a shite in a field down fae the ruins of the Tavern, peering at the glorious mines in Moodiesburn, when this dead pigeon showed up. Looked like it had been dead about three years. No much more than a wee bag a bones so it was.
The ferret gave it a cheeky wink. “Lovely day for it, eh?”
The pigeon said nothing. Instead, would ye believe it, the bastard rubbed that ferret’s face in his ain shite. The poor ferret vomited.
“Jesus! Whit did ye dae that fir?”
The pigeon then tore aff its own beak and battered that ferret tae death! Safe tae say, that ferret messed wae the wrong pigeon that morning. Should have been more careful around there.