Bird Scat Fever
As has been chronicled here before, I get shit on a lot. More specifically, birds apparently view me as their personal toilet. So, without much surprise, my second "I can't believe a bird shat on me" of the year occured just a few short minutes ago, and it was a keeper. Man, was it a keeper.
Initially believing that I was going to get a small bruise, possibly even a welt, on my back from a fallen acorn, I asked the Resident Female if I had, in fact, been hit by what I was hoping might have been a small branch. Alas, it was not. Some bird, who apparently eats a lot of beef, decided that it needed to migrate south for the winter and unloaded all remnants of his internal organs in one go, hoping that being hollow might make the journey south marginally easier. As the mass of bird dung circled through the air, clinging itself into a tighter and tighter ball, the Resident Female and I managed to walk underneath the descending shitball and place my shoulder underneath the scat. With a mighty sound, it connected. That turned out to be the end of our walk. Fortunately, the bird waited a split second to unleash the contents of its insides, as a direct hit to the top of my head very well might have caused a concussion.
Okay, all hyperbole aside, I hate fucking birds. Most people remember every time they have been shat on by a bird because it has only happened to them once or twice. Not me. I've been shat on so many times that I've lost count. I seem to be averaging about 2 a year since I moved to DC in '03, and I am probably in the 14-16 range for my life. Off the top of my head, here are some of the more memorable ones:
Disney World ("the happiest place on earth" my ass)
My first date, by a seagull (that's a big turn on)
On the way to a job interview
On the way to congressional testimony (note: not me testifying)
Twice in one day in 04 (morning and evening shots)
Walking with the Resident Female in Georgetown, with her getting some splatter
In the 1st mile of a road race, on the cheek.
Really.
I hate birds.
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