18. Aid pigeons in target practice.


Another day of rushing around the city. You’re late. You have not yet consumed the requisite amount of caffeine needed to maintain consciousness. There’s a rock in your shoe. And you’re wearing two different colored socks, though this is due mainly to the this morning’s distraction caused by your separation-anxiety cat and his wails of neediness. The point is, you don’t really need another thing to go wrong with your day.

Of course, Mother Nature has other plans.

You’re quite sure your hat does not resemble the windshield of a car, nor does it feature a bullseye design, nor was it even purchased at Target. But that doesn’t stop the hordes of flying rats from relieving themselves all over your stylish and rather expensive beret. Perhaps the pigeons just don’t like the look of your face. Perhaps they do not care for French couture. Perhaps they spent all last night pecking away at a Taco Bell Fourthmeal left in a garbage can and are currently suffering the dire consequences. Whatever the reason, you now occupy the illustrious position of having been marked by avian feces. It does not feel good.

But the dangers don’t stop there. Those sharp little beaks and manic, dead eyes have much more in store for your already ruined morning. Distracted and panicked, you immediately call up your emergency dry cleaner, Renaldo. While you fumble for a pen and paper to write down his explicit instructions for the best way to remove bird crap from Parisian silk, the sinister winged devils chart your every move. Sure, their innocent-sounding clucking and cooing may sound harmless to an outsider, but rest assured, malignant conspiracies of a most injurious nature are being unflaggingly plotted in excruciating detail, right there on the branches of a majestic elm.

You, meanwhile, remain oblivious. Which is why you never see the attack coming. One minute you’re running down the sidewalk, trying to hail a cab (though none will stop because you’re covered in excrement), the next minute you’re flailing comically, bleeding from the skull, and screaming “SAVE ME RENALDO!” at no one in particular.

What happened? All you can remember is a loud, some might say vengeful screech, followed by a literal explosion of feathers in the immediate vicinity of your head.

You frantically survey the area, attempting to identify the culprit. But whoever it was has flown back to safe obscurity in the general population of its walking-petri-dish brethren. You continue to stare blankly, unbelieving, stopping strangers to shrilly demand “DID ANYONE JUST SEE THAT?” They did, and they are laughing at you. Some are pointing. One guy even took a picture. It will be blogged and humorously captioned within the space of fifteen minutes.

So if you want to suck, aid pigeons in their target practice. You’re no ornithologist, but it doesn’t take an expert to realize that they’ve already won. Resistance is futile. Best just to abandon the world to their tyranny and pray that the countless diseases they carry will dispose of the human race in a relatively quick and painless manner.


1 Comment »

  1. BrianMojo said

    Hah! And here I thought this kind of thing only happened to me.

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