Guns, Kilts, and Stuff

Spotted hereIain Harrison talks about caliber, kilts, and kegerators over at My Gun Culture.

Couple things: Sporran carry is a good option if you have a larger sporran. I like the Nightstalker, which used to be available from Stillwater Kilts. For a slightly less-traditional-looking sporran, you could use something like the Combat Admin Pouch, which may be finding its way into my own kilt rotation.

Some of the ladies’ under-skirt and thighband options may be pretty good, too. Be cautious, though — you should have a mechanism that does not rely on friction (or worse, a tourniquet) around your thigh to support and secure your pistol.

Free Advice

So I went to Gander Mt. today (on the way to the range) and, of course, I’m in the kilt. Today’s was the choco-Workman (kinda like this, but not black), thankyouverymuch.

While at Gander Mt., I noticed that they’re now stocking a large assortment of 5.11 Tacticool garments, so I browse the wares. While browsing, a small group of five mouth-breathers presumably on a shopping expedition from their hunting trip notice the kilt, encircle us about 20 ft away, and unleash with Teh Stoopid. There were lots of remarks in a short period, but one that stuck in my head was, “little faggot in a skirt”.


Little? Perhaps — I’m only 5′ 7″.

Faggot? Nope. I’m quite hetero, thanks.

Skirt? Well, it’s called a kilt. If I wore something under it, then it would be a skirt.

So, here’s the tip, lads: if you’re intent on picking a fight, perhaps you should exercise a bit more caution in your victim selection. You see, what you failed to realize is that while the “little faggot in a skirt” remained extremely calm but made eye contact with each of you and was very aware of exactly where each of you were standing and that each of you were openly armed with various knives, he was also very well-prepared to defend himself and his nearly adult-son from five very large, armed assailants:

50 rds each 45 & 9mm, 15 ft., Mozambique drills.

Update: Just had this little ditty bouncing around my head:

Home, home on the range
Where the nines and the 45s play

Eh… make it up as you go.

Kilts, Parties, and Social Observations

Our annual company party was last night. Because of the weather (3 inches of completely unexpected snow), we didn’t have nearly as many people attend as we normally do. But my wife and I were determined to make it there.

This was a semi-formal event, so, naturally, I wore a tie. Oh, and of course, my favorite kilt.

Some other people wore semi-formal vestments, of course. And, being a tech company, there were a fair percentage of jeans and sweatshirts.

As expected, the kilt drew looks, comments, thumbs up — and not a single negative remark.

One attendee stuck in my mind. While I was waiting for my loverly date to return, a young woman of maybe 25 or 30 with a curious accent — I’d guess Northern European — approached me and a bit shyly asked, “May I ask you a personal question?”

It’s not my style to be discourteous to a complete stranger, especially given the circumstances (Duh, I’m in a kilt… at a company event… people ask questions), “Of course.”

“Are you wearing anything under there?”

Quickly, I had a few possible responses flash through my mind. The first possible response would have been, “Under where?” Though my standby to women who ask that one is usually, “Good girls don’t ask… bad ones find out for themselves.”

No, company function. Must remain respectable.

“Well,” I thought for a moment, “it is called a kilt.”

Her eyes widened. She gave a bit of a smirk and a nervous laugh. Then a response that left me a bit more confused: “Woah, that’s too much information!” Though I’d attribute that remark to nervousness on her part. She probably expected the “Under where?” response.

I smiled and she went off to catch up with her date.

Fast forward about an hour and things are winding down for the middle-aged crowd, so we’re getting ready to say our farewells to various attendees. I notice out of the corner of my eye, Ms. Curiosity nearing to walk behind me toward the exit. Then, quite possibly the funniest goddamned thing happened… as she passed behind me within a few feet, she dropped the napkin she was holding, then she dropped to her knees on the floor and, while half-heartedly reaching for the napkin, she did the classic I’m-a-ten-year-old-perv-dropping-coins trick and cocked her head to try getting an obvious peek up the kilt.


Ask what’s under somebody’s clothing; get offended when the answer is “what do you think?” And funny as hell that the adult woman would act like a juvenile boy and go about trying to figure it out for herself.