When I was younger I kept a journal. It was an almost daily collection of my thoughts, fears, excitements and disappointments intermingled page by page with clippings of Seventeen magazine and Rolling Stone.
If nothing else, having filled those pages brings me the hush of pleasant reminiscing. Beyond that, I am impressed by the thoughtful and honest subject matter I covered. At fourteen, I was wrestling with the issues of nations. I produced commentary on the the wildness of the human heart contrasted against the dispassionate logic of the head. All my truths were grounded in what little life experience I had in my—even then—chubby gut. Nowadays, when I sit down to write the only things I can effortlessly spout off about are usually criminal in their frivolity.
Today, it's the pigeons turn.
For the second Saturday in a row, Air-Force-trained pigeons have gunned the passenger side of my vehicle, starting at the headlights and polishing off the mess with excellent trunk coverage.
Consider this cry delivered to them; Why pigeons, why?!
The first time it was marginally humorous, now I'm just appalled! And yes, someone has already tried to convince me that since birds lack strong sphincter muscles the attacks cannot be deliberate. But I know a hate crime when I see one and Lieutenant White Dung has it out for me. That's a fact.
To the Pigeons:
Listen here, flock of birds I have never seen and your Infamous Leader. Your days of target pooping are numbered and I will stop at nothing to bring this fight to your doorstep, birds! Nothing. NOTHING!
A little melodramatic? I didn't think so either. Besides, my attention span is far too short to allow me any sort of proper follow through on my threats. It it also guaranteed that something far more infuriating will get my goat while I'm setting up surveillance equipment for the pigeons. At least now I know that if they, the pigeons, read this blog they will find themselves formally acquainted with the depths of my wrath, and I suppose that is enough.
Also, was part of that line from The Bourne Identity? Three maybe?
Alas, unimportant. The more important thing is that I lower by blood pressure by looking on the bright side. That bright side being that at least the birdies were being mindful of their diet this time around. Last week's order was of an entirely different consistency.