Fleeting Thoughts After Getting Shit On By A Bird
I just got shit on by a fucking bird.
Fuck birds. I hate them. And their shit. And their obvious inability to chew berries. If the missile had not been fired from the telephone wire above me, I would have thought I had been the target of a nice blueberry parfait accompanied by vanilla-flavored yogurt. This was no Yoplait. This was a winged beast with irritable bowel syndrome.
Glancing around, I realized there was nothing convenient to wipe my forearm with. I could have started walking back to my house, but that was way too long a time to keep feces on my body. It would seep into my pores. Or dry on my skin into a crusty layer. Or block the sun, which would lead me to have to explain that the reason one spot on my arm was paler than the rest was because my tan had been delayed due to pigeon diarrhea. The closest thing to me was a wooden telephone pole. I wiped my arm across that and ventured on.
I was trying to go my whole life without being shit on, and that little fucker ruined it for me. I might as well pick up a hooker now and ask her to take a dump on my chest.
"You're not the first, toots."
That isn't to say I haven't come close. (To bird shit, not hooker turds.) I remember a time I went hiking with my father and my sister. It would have been a peaceful Emersonian experience if it wasn't for the large group of Asians behind us who felt the need to point and shout at every blade of grass they saw.
"GLASS BRADE! GLASS BRADE!"
Suddenly, their voices were drowned out by the sound of a downpour.
"It's raining!" I shouted.
"I don't see any rain..." my sister replied.
"I can hear it! It's raining!"
"That's not rain..." my dad said cautiously. "...IT'S BIRD SHIT!"
The three of us began to sprint, covering our heads with our backpacks. The Asians behind us looked at us, then at each other, then sputtered a bunch of Asian words, then seemed to come to the mutual agreement that my family and I were in fact not just a bunch of lunatics and that there must be a logical reason for our flee. They began to run after us.
I still don't know what happened back there in that wood. I can assume that a hundred birds in the treetops came to the mutual consensus that they all had a bad case of food poisoning and needed to rid themselves of the toxins immediately. On top of our heads. Because birds are assholes. Literally. That's all they are to me. A bunch of feathered anal canals.
The end of the story doesn't really matter, because we all escaped feces-free. And so did the Asians. Though they did all look severely puzzled when we stopped running and went back to walking. They obviously had no idea why the jog had even commenced. Forrowels.
Somehow threesomes came up in conversation last night. I can't quite remember how, just as I can't recall other recent discussion topics: why I'm not allowed to sing songs from The Aristocats, eating Stretch Armstrong, and how Christopher Columbus should go suck a dick. I've heard that college kids are supposed to talk about deeper things, but I think Columbus shoving a penis in his mouth could get pretty deep.
Among the threesome discourse, someone interjected: "EIFFEL TOWER!" Something told me they weren't talking about France, despite the amount of pubes and boobs I've seen in any French film I've ever watched. (France + film = naked person smoking a cigarette.)
"Wait, what do you mean?"
"Like this!" another friend demonstrated, as she held up her arms and made a triangle, accompanied by the signal that a woman lay in between.
"OH..." I said, as if I knew. I didn't know. I admitted this half a second later.
"I don't actually know. I thought you meant two dudes with boners were touching their tips together. I don't know why I thought that. Pizza, anyone?"
People boast that they learn something new everyday, but are these things really useful? Sure, I learn something new everyday, but it's not exactly the kind of impressive knowledge I could include on my resume.
Area of expertise: Knowledge of the Eiffel Tower in both France and sexual positions; ability to define "blumpkin;" awareness of what the insides of a Stretch Armstrong tastes like after making out with him; knitting.
I'm still not over the whole bird thing.