They're going to arrive in a used Amazon box along with an ill-fitting worn kilt and a dirty flask that you'll never wash, just like your pile of laundry that's taking over your bed.

There'll also be a five-year-old-receipt showing it came from Angus' Highland Bagpiper Supply and Overnight Haggis with hundreds of yellowed, expired coupons. And a small solidified piece of haggis. You'll keep them.

You'll spend five solid days putting them together. Out of the hundreds of YouTube videos that you're going to watch, not one will be about how to play them since you're more of a “learn-on-the-job” kind of guy. They'll be another item on your checklist that you can't follow through on, just like your college degree, last month's job interview, and that boil you need to get checked out.

You'll mistakenly think the reeds are developing some exotic flavor. Nope —It's mold. Just another thing you neglected, like your car's “check engine” light that you've ignored for over a year now. You'll incorrectly think your headaches are being caused by the loud, poorly interpreted songs you're belting out on them. The resulting coughing fits and sleeping problems will be a mystery to you, but to be honest, your hangovers will probably mask it all.

You'll fill the flask with Jack Daniels and keep calling it scotch. The alcohol will give you the confidence to brazenly parade around in the tight kilt. To keep things exciting, every so often you'll do a few drunken faceplants on the sidewalk.

Unlike you, the bagpipes will actually have a history of being revered and respected. You'll never learn that bagpipes are the most solemn part of many memorial services, steeped in tradition and lore. Or that they were originally used in battle to scare off the enemy like you scare off the neighborhood dogs, birds, and squirrels.

You'll end up destroying the reeds while forcefully blasting them trying to play along with scary Prog-Metal groups.

People will start to question your sudden fascination with defiling the Scottish culture and start heckling you. “Your great-grandfather was born in Philadelphia” they'll say, and “Why do you insist on torturing us at the apartment complex every morning?” or “Jesus Christ, it's 8 am!”

You'll end up ordering a silly fake surname crest online and hang it on your wall in your man-cave/living room. It'll say “There can be only one” on it and you'll wish you could show it off if anyone would ever come over.

You'll briefly consider getting a tattoo of Fat Bastard.

After about six months of you butchering every song you attempt to play, you'll put them in your very own old Amazon box and store them in the cold and messy storage unit along with your other failed “hobbies” like a beer making kit, juggling pins, and a Bowflex (of course!).

You'll forget you ever had them until your car stops working and you need some cash for the repair bills. Instead of selling them, you'll just sell your car.

With the extra cash, you'll desperately try to find another hobby.

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