Sit ye down, laddehs, while your Uncle Angus tells his tale of woe. ‘Twas a night just like this one, o’er a hundred year ago, and Duncan MacGregor, sire to the MacGregor clan, were lost in the dark forest, where nary a man dared go.
‘Twas then he heard a strange sound, like naught what he’d ever heard inna his thirty-odd years. Cautiously, he followed it to a clearing, and what he saw made him doubt his own eyes: Six wee fluffeh bunnehs in a circle, bonny as could be — but their unearthly chant dinna’nae sound like nae bunneh he’d ever heard.
As Duncan crept closer, one’o the wee beasties spied ‘im, and in a piercing wail they chanted as one: agarn ne’barth twee flobber schlamozzel, the ancient Scots curse o’the farmer. And e’er since that fateful night, nae a man in clan MacGregor can till the soil wi’out gettin’ bedeviled by demon rabbits from Hell itself.
And that’s why we run a kilt shop, Andrew Y.