What's to love about our fine-feathered friends?
by Joey Cody
I live in torment. Spring has sprung, but I'd give anything for three more weeks of clouds. Because, you see, they have arrived...
I despise birds. I've never understood the likes of birdwatchers (who kinkily call their sport 'birding'—don't get me started), ornithologists, or octogenarian gardeners who coo at the delight of being awakened before dawn by the incessant chirping of finches, larks, and cardinals. Complete loons, the lot of them. All I hear are filthy, screeching pests squabbling and boinking and greedily gobbling up all the grass seed.
Bluebirds crap on your melon and your just-washed car (or just about anything just-washed). Gulls brazenly steal food right out of your hands at the beach. Chickens crow and cluck at 4 a.m. The average raven carries more diseases and parasites than a sewer rat. 'Exotic' parrots spread pulmonary chlamydiosis. And have you ever actually seen Capistrano after the swallows have had their way with it? (I'm no pontiff, but I'm pretty sure the other 'miracles' do not require a pooper-scooper.)
With the possible exception of the big birds of prey that sometimes devour mine enemy with majesty and glee, I would just as soon have them eradicated. (Attention brainy, scientific types: Please do not inundate the Metro Pulse offices with theses expounding the biological and ecological ramifications of that fantasy. Thank you.)
They all just give me the creeps...those flat, dead eyes and dull beaks. Ugh. Ick. Who in their right mind could actually love the vermin?
No, I've never seen The Birds. But Poe's The Raven still makes me want my mommie. See, Poe and Hitchcock knew who the true harbingers of hell are. They are, indeed, abominations. And the evolutionary progeny of velociraptors? I don't doubt it for a second.
Sound bitter? Perhaps I'm merely envious. Birds, after all, can seem so aloof and smug sometimes—with all that flitting around, flying off, and dropping little doodie grenades anywhere they darn well please. Or perhaps I'm feeling vengeful. When I was little, the doves and thrushes would never deign to light on my head and shoulders, disdainfully refusing to cooperate in my elaborate Cinderella-singing-in-the-forest reenactments. Impudent twerps! Did they not realize how their insolence made me lose face with my rapt audience of stuffed animals? (Mammals, every one, by the way.) Maybe it was my sister's sweet little Easter chick growing up to be a huge, aggressive attack rooster. (Guess he didn't like the name "Cathy.") Or perhaps it was that single eyeball staring up at me from my double-yolker lo those many years past. (Shudder). Who knows.
Regardless of the reasons, I cannot bring myself to be charitable towards the feathered fiends. I actually felt sorry for the attorneys in the Andrew Jackson and Riverview buildings, who were stalked by those skulky vultures last year (apparently petitioning to become Knoxville's legal mascots). I sincerely hope they at least picked off a few plump, unsuspecting robins or hyper-litigious citizens on their rounds.
On my runs, the aim of which is purportedly therapeutic, I have been forced to engage in fierce battles with the bitchy Canada geese guarding their young on the grassy sides of the trail. (As if the homely little goslings are worth the fight. Hmph.) I refuse to let them bully me into finding another suitable route. They hiss and lunge. I dodge and parry. It never ceases to turn my refreshing run into more strenuous and stressful cross-training exercise.
Everywhere I turn, though, people are oohing and aahing and falling all over themselves to get near the delights of the skies. Gag. If only the little beasties lived only among the clouds—I can't tell you how close I am to throttling a bird-brained woman who insists on crumbling crackers all around a tree outside our office. She smiles her exasperatingly vacuous, self-satisfied smile, believing she appears so peaceful and 'at one' with nature. "Feeeeed the biiiiiiirds...tuppence a bag ..." Yeah, thanks, lady. Just what we needed: more greasy crows and pudgy pigeons.
Yes, here in granola-encrusted, nature-loving Tennessee, I seem to be quite alone in my repugnance and hostility. (Grammy: Stop sending me bird feeder gifts. Just give it up.) Since there seem to be few of my fellow humanoids who sympathize with my campaign, I've recently begun a rigorous training regimen for the unemployed Fourth & Gill block cats. (And I've found at least one benefit to neighbors who can't be bothered with the leash law—heh heh.)
So, to any filthy avian-lovers out there who may try to sway me from my cause, remember: I've got a Super Soaker CPS 1200 loaded with Tabasco, and I'm not afraid to use it.
April 25, 2002 * Vol. 12, No. 17
© 2002 Metro Pulse
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