An old man walks into a pub in Scottland, his feet shuffling, his back bent. He drags himself onto a stool and orders a beer. Placing the full glass in front of him, the bartender inquires upon his sad face.

The man answers with a smoky and trembling voice and a Scottish accent:

Ah, tell ya man! This pub, this very pub we're just sitting in. I built it, with me own hands! But do they call me the carpenter?

Nae!

See the wall over there, that protects our town? I built it, with me own hands! But do they call me the mason?

Nae!

And the bridge, you know, that crosses our river, I built it, with me own hands! But do they call me the bridge maker?

Nae!

 

But I tell ya, lad! YOU f*** ONE GOAT!

At least spell it right - Scotland, not Scottland