This guy was in the Muirhead Inn on a wet Monday night in January. The pub was pure empty. Not a soul about. Not a soul. Every cunt was either aff the drink or skint.
So this guy was a wee bit steaming. Now he wisnae spouting pish fae his gub steaming, jist eyes glazed over kind a steaming. He spotted this lonley shoe on the deck and sparked up a conversation.
“Here, mate, see if a was on a plane and it crashed and they telt us awe tae stay calm…”
“Aye?” said the shoe, looking interested.
“Well, a wouldnae stay fucking calm. A would be flinging folk right oot ma way. A wouldnae care who they wir. Ye huv tae save yirsel, ye know?”
The guy took a sip oot his pint and clenched his big gub.
“A know whit yir thinking, that could be someone’s wee granda that ended up deid cos a trampled on him tae get oot that fucking plane. But listen… that guy who a trampled on, he could have jist as well as been a peado. So why the fuck would a no trample on a peado tae save ma ain life?”
The shoe was lost fir words. But ye cannae disagree with the guy’s logic. We cannae be saving peados now kin we? The guy was spot on.