Wednesday, August 18, 2010


I bought a bird feeder because I like watching little chirpy things with feathers bounce around tweeting at each other. And tweeting in the real sense, not in the social media sense. Then again, who knows what modern technology they have hidden in their nests? I’m picturing a trap door that leads into a secret room in a tree branch, complete with secret spy cameras to watch us all in preparation of their world takeover. Which begs the question of why I’m even feeding the little feathery fuckers in the first place, but maybe they’ll remember and spare my life when they begin their world domination instead of pecking my eyeballs out with the rest of mankind. Hitchcock already predicted this, remember? They’ve just been waiting for their technology to catch up. Anyway, I digress. I seriously digress.

My yard is suspiciously devoid of trees or branches or really any hangy things to dangle a cute little bird feeder from. There is one little plant hanger in front of my kitchen window and I thought it would be delightful to watch the little birdies flit around while I wash dishes, so there it went. Until I realized that, with the windows always open, they always hear me and fly away before I can enjoy them. All I get to see is a stupid bird feeder swinging back and forth. Dumb.

Also? Those little buggers are messy! They drop half of their food all over my front porch, with a rather large proportion of it falling on my patio chair. Sitting on birdseed isn’t really as comfortable as the naughty birds probably want you to think. However, I was okay with wiping off the chair and sweeping the patio, until – I discovered that they don’t only drop food during their mealtime perches. Yes, ladies and germs, they feel perfectly at ease pooping on said chair and patio. Gross.

Of course after deciding that the feeder had to come down, I finally spotted a little birdie creature eating. Of course. It’s like he knew what I was thinking. “Don’t take it down, look how cute I am. I’m small and feathery and my chest is this pretty blush color, which is kind of like pink, but blends in with my brown feathers better. And listen – I’m chirping so cutely to invite my friends to display their cuteness too. Cheep, cheep, cute cheep!” Yes, he was a dastardly little bastard, but I was not swayed by his uber cuteness. Poop, people. I already have two dogs pooping in the back yard, I don’t need more poop in the front. The feeder came down, the chair was wiped off and the porch was swept. The bird feeder? I just set it at the back of the patio until I decide what to do with it.

Later, as I was relaxing with a Manhattan and waiting for the impending thunderstorm, I heard some cheeping. Not cute cheeping, angry cheeping. Followed by fffffffttt, the flutter of angry wings. Not really fluttering, more like mad beating. It’s a good thing I’ve just been feeding little finch things and not something like an eagle or a turkey buzzard. Little Mr. Bird Turd hopped around where I had swept the seeds, looked at me, flew up to the roof, then ffffftttt’ed some more. Actually, he fffffftttt’ed a lot. It sounded kind of like a “fuck you” in feather-flight speak. He did find the feeder on the corner of the patio so I’m hoping he’s satisfied with that for a while.

Although now that I think of it, I’ve just put him right at cat-snack level. Damn, I’m going to have to move it before I’m added to the pecked-out-eyes list during the Bird Apocalypse.



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