Kevin’s Haggis Havoc

Transcription:

Right, ye dafties, gather roond an' listen tae this belter o' a tale. This one’s aboot the time Wee Kevin decided he'd try his hand at cookin'. Aye, ye heard me right. Cookin'. Kevin woke up one mornin' wi' a bee in his bonnet, thinkin' he'd become the next Gordon Ramsay. "Ach, if that loudmouth can dae it, so can I," he muttered, his heid still fuzzy frae the night before. So off he went tae the local cookin' school, his apron lookin' like it had seen better days an' a swagger in his step like he wis somethin' special. The first day wis a disaster waitin' tae happen. Kevin, nae stranger tae makin' a mess, wis in over his heid frae the start. The instructor, a posh git named Chef Pierre, announced they’d be makin' haggis. Kevin's face screwed up like he'd just sniffed a fart. "Haggis? That shite? I cannae stand the stuff," he grumbled. Pierre, nae payin' any attention tae Kevin's protests, began demonstratin' how tae prepare the "traditional Scottish delicacy." Kevin, nae wantin' tae seem like a wimp, reluctantly got stuck in, but his heart wisnae in it. He started mixin' the ingredients, grumblin' under his breath. "This is pure torture. Who the hell eats this muck?" As the other students worked away, Kevin's frustration grew. He thought he could jazz up the recipe a bit an' chucked in a heap o' random spices. "A bit o' this, a bit o' that, can't be worse than the usual crap," he muttered. Soon, the kitchen wis filled wi' the smell o' burnin' spices an' singed sheep's stomach. Kevin's concoction started bubblin' an' spittin' like a demon possessed. "Ach, what the hell is that?" he shouted, backin' away. Pierre came runnin' o'er, his face turnin' white as a sheet. "What have you done, you eejit?" he bellowed. But it wis too late. Kevin's haggis exploded wi' a force that sent a rain o' sheep guts an' fiery spices everywhere. Panic ensued. Students were screamin', slippin' on bits o' haggis, an' Pierre wis cursin' in French, wavin' his arms like a madman. Kevin, covered in bits o' his culinary disaster, made a run for it. "Sod this, I’m oot!" he yelled, boltin' for the door. In his mad dash, he managed tae knock o'er a stack o' pots an' pans, sendin' them crashin' doon like a metal avalanche. The noise wis deafening, an' Kevin slipped on a greasy patch, slidin' right intae a table o' fancy desserts, flattenin' them like a pancake. By the time he finally stumbled oot the door, the kitchen wis in ruins. Smoke billowed oot the windows, an' the sound o' Pierre’s furious rantin' could be heard echoing doon the street. Kevin, breathin' heavy an' lookin' like he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards, paused tae catch his breath. "Well, that wis a feckin' disaster," he muttered tae himself. "Who needs cookin' anyway? I’ll stick tae me takeaways." An' so, Kevin’s brief foray intae the culinary world ended in chaos an' calamity, a testament tae his eternal knack for turnin' anythin' he touches intae pure shite. Slàinte, ye bawbags!