The Scooping Stance

I'm not a hippie. I have friends that are hippies, but I, myself? Not a hippie. No dreds. (Though I've been told I could pull them off nicely. In other words, I've been told I have nappy dirty hair and I might as well doutch it in pungent wax.) No tie-dye. (Unless you count my Girl Scout days, which somehow goes from being really cool to really nerdy. Probably because 18-year-old girls shouldn't be singing songs about Joe who works in a button factory, which involves sticking your tongue out and bobbing your head up and down. That's only appropriate for minors.) No piece. (The last thing I named was a soccer ball. I named it, "Mayonnaise." Obviously if I caved under pressure in naming a ball, I would have no place in dealing with the pressure that comes with naming a marijuana-smoking device. What with all the "Freedom"s and "Virtue"s and "Liberty"s. You know, all THOSE highly original names. How dumb would I look running around with my gram and my "Dijon." Yes, Dijon as in 'mustard.' See? Caving.) Not only do I not match those hippie standards, I also don't smoke, so that automatically eliminates me. Ever heard of a hippie who doesn't go to Narnia? (as the 8th graders used to call it) Yeah. Didn't think so. The only hippie trait I possess would have to be the fact that no matter how many showers I take, my feet are constantly dirty. And that trait I don't exactly advertise.

Despite my lack of wax and lack of Dijon, I had what one may call a "hippie moment," just one week ago. I saved an animal. 

Okay, so I wasn't exactly "the one" that saved it. I basically did all the work only for some gonad to show up with a cardboard box and take all of the credit. But who was the one who sat with it for an hour? ME. Who was the one who started taking pictures of it with a cell phone? ME. Who was the one who realized it had no eyeballs? ME. 

Here's the story: I was dropping my sister's friend off at her house after school. And we see this blue jay. This beautiful blue jay just chillin in the street. And it's not moving. So we get out to, you know, scare it away or something, I don't know. And it still doesn't move. It's just looking around. So we're, you know, leaning in and daring each other to get closer ("I'll give you a quarter if you touch it's beak.")("Well I DARE you to touch it's beak.")("Well shit looks like I'm touchin it's beak then.") and poking its tail then running away because we're mature and animal-friendly. Then we realize it doesn't seem to be looking at us. So we look at its face. BAM! No fuckin eyes. Closest I've come to a Hitchcock moment, right there. The thing had no eyes, man. Were they gouged out? Closed shut? Nonexistent from the start? I don't know, I just know that the thing had no fuckin' eyes. So I dial up some Animal Awareness number, which by the way takes FOREVER. I mean I would have saved time if I had driven home and googled it and then driven back and then churned some butter and then helped the damn blue jay.

"Dial 1 for possums. Dial 2 for lizards. Dial 3 for mice. Dial 4 for raccoons. Dial 5 for kimono dragons. Dial 6 for unicorns. Dial 7 for Santa Claus."

I mean, seriously? It went on forever. As if anyone would even approach a kimono dragon. Hello? Haven't you heard about what happened to Sharon Stone's husband? By the time I got to 23, which was "baby birds" I just hit it. Which was stupid because all they told me to do was put it back in its nest or put it in a cardboard box. Hence the "baby" in "baby birds." Okay, yeah, I could have just hung up and started all over again, but I have something I like to keep on my hands. It's called TIME.

I got the info. We got the bird. Everything looks like it might just work out, then some dude pulls up in a red pick-up truck. Which of course is an automatic sign that this guy is probably a dimwit. 

"We're just trying to help this bird."

"That's a blue jay."

"Yep. We're trying to help it. It's blind."

"It doesn't have eyes."

"Yes. It's blind."

Then he leaves. Ten minutes later he's back with a cardboard box. Okay, so maybe he's not a dimwit. He approaches the bird from the side, in order to "scoop" it I would guess, but the thing is blind, remember now. So basically all it's gonna infer from the situation is that something is poking it from behind and it can't see what. So it takes off.

"Oh no! It's flyi---oh shit!"

And runs into a brick wall.

So Mr. Doofus decides to walk back up to the bird, and do what? Try the exact same approach, since you know, it worked SO WELL the last time, you know, the time the bird took off, flew into a wall, and fell down. Then hopped back up. It's not gonna hop back up every time that happens, buddy. You know how people say cats have nine lives? Well birds don't. Moron.

So he's doing the brilliant "scooparoo" and what does it do but take off again. NO SHIT, SHERLOCK. Except this time it's heading straight towards my car. My sister happens to be standing outside of the car watching this bird fly towards it. I'm not sure exactly what she was thinking, all I saw was her calmly staring at this blind bird headed right towards her then---

"SHIT MOTHER FUCKER JESUS CHRIST! AAAHHHHHHHHHHH!"

The bird flies STRAIGHT into her neck, starts fluttering its wings all up in her face, she's screaming, cursing like a sailor, and sprinting towards some bushes waving her arms around her head like Olive Oyl. 

"WHAT THE FUCK MAN WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME THE FUCKING BIRD WAS GONNA FLY INTO EEEEHHHH UHHHHH BLAAHHHH!"

She stopped making sense due to the shock. The man with the box doesn't even react. Unless you count him looking over and smiling slightly, which is really just fucking creepy, and starts walking towards the bird again, and crouches down into his "scooping" stance. 

"Um, excuse me? Yeah, sorry. Maybe if you tried putting the box over the bird, that way it couldn't fly away? You don't have to, I just thought maybe it'd work."

"That may work. I guess."

Yeah since you and your notorious scooping stance has worked wonders. 

And guess what? It worked. Then the man got into his car, waved, and left. No, "Hey sorry I made that bird fly straight into your sister's neck at 30 miles an hour." No, "Hey thanks for the advice it really worked." No, "Hey sorry I smiled like a creepy stalker man when your sister was brutally attacked." He just left. Yeah, you could say "he" was the one who "saved" it, but I'd like to take all the credit here. I mean, come on, who's the one with the box idea? ME. Who's the one who called up Animal UNawareness? ME. All that doofus did was capture it, put it in a box, and drive it down to an animal shelter where it'll be safe and happy. Please. I think we all know who the true hippie was in this story. That's right, the one with the cell phone pics to prove it. ME.