About a half hour before closing, one of my regular patrons came in with his wife. Picture, if you will, a 70 year-old cowboy, bent from the saddle, weather beaten and gnarled. And that's his wife.

They needed copies, so I'm running them off, and he says

"What's with the skirt?"

"What skirt," says I.

"That skirt." He points at my new Buchanan SWK.

"I don't see any skirts," says I.

"It's a kilt, dear," says his wife.

"Oh. Sorry."

"It's too late, dear," says his wife. "He's probably going to hurt you now."

"Just for calling it a skirt?"

"Dear," she tells him, "my parents were Scottish, and I'm thinking about hurting you."

"Oh, damn," he says.