Disclaimer: This post is not about kids or family. It’s about my insanity. Also, don’t read this if you love birds. You’re not going to be happy with where I end up.
I hate birds.
I should clarify. I hate live birds. Chicken is delicious.
When I was a kid, if my sisters or I found a bird feather in the yard, we would pick it up and caress it and rub it against our faces, and my mother, who I can only assume was drunk and therefore no longer able to comprehend the plethora of diseases we were likely acquiring, did not flip out. Or maybe she was completely aware of the risks of rubbing the shedded wings of diseased birds on one’s face but was willing to allow us to take those risks.
If The Good One or The Beast finds a bird feather in the yard, I assume that the bird was flying happily overhead when it was overcome by the symptoms of bird flu and then fell, dead, out of the sky.
I assume that that bird feathers that they bring to me with great excitement and joy are little-bitty, colorful, fluffy hypodermic needles of death.
Last year, The Good One had to do a project on wolves. He used a board for his display and needed something to make a wolf den out of. [Yes, I used “of” at the end of the sentence. You can go ahead and suck it if that bothers you. PMS. Sorry.] Virginia Slims Man and The Good One were outside trying find something to use for a den, found an empty bird’s nest and BROUGHT IT INTO MY HOUSE!
I have no idea what sort of sane person my husband thought he was married to, because he decided to glue that hideous, cholera-infested nest to The Good One’s board. He completed this task on my kitchen table. I pulled my shirt up over my nose to prevent the bird death from entering my body.
I repeatedly emphasized the fact that we were all going to be dead within a day from bird diseases and when the medical examiner finally showed up because of the smell that drew the attention of our neighbors, he would find our bodies slumped over the wolf den, covered in bites from bird mites.
Because VSM has learned after 18 years of marriage that you cannot argue with insanity, he removed the nest and disinfected everything it touched.
Our zoo has a giant aviary, or as I like to call it “The House of Flying Pestilence,” that houses hundreds and hundreds of birds. For a mere dollar, you can enter The House of Flying Pestilence, get a stick that has a bunch of birdseed glued to it, and then you can have a flock of birds fight right in front of your face to be the one that gets to dig its claws into your hand or wrist so it can sit there and eat the birdseed.
Sometimes, if you’re really lucky, the birds will fight right on your hand. You might even get pecked in the process.
It’s great fun.
When you leave the birdhouse, the zoo employees tell you to wash your hands at the sink right outside.
You know what that means, right? It means that they realize that birds are disease-carrying rodents with wings.
And lately, when I’ve been walking/running/hyperventilating in my neighborhood, I’ve noticed a larger than normal amount of birds flying around. At first I thought they were bats, but Virginia Slims Man told me “They are not bats, you moron; they are martins and they are probably flying around in hysterics because of the infinity-billion mosquitoes in the air. So instead of trying to shoot them out of the sky with laser beam eyes, you should be grateful for them.”
Ginny Slims can be a total ass.
I swear to you that on my run today, one of those supposedly kind birds flew straight at my face and only turned away from me when he got close enough for me to touch him, and I’m pretty sure he did that because I started Tae-bo’ing the air and shrieking in fear.
And did you read this story about the birds flying into the engine of a plane and forcing an emergency landing? If you read/watch that story, you’ll be reminded about the plane that landed on the Hudson River, also because of birds.
So basically, birds, which I hate, will fly into the engine of your plane (happens all the time), cause the engine to stop working and then your plane will crash.
I apologize if you were unaware of this and are about to fly somewhere. I suggest heading to the airport a week before your flight and spreading some sort of poison birdseed around so that all the birds in the area will die before you fly.
But that’s just what I’d do.
I’m thinking that when the Bible says that Satan convinced one-third of the angels to choose the dark side of the Force, the angels weren’t so much angels as they were birds, and he didn’t get one-third of them so much as he got all of them.
So I’d like to find someone to kill all the birds.
If you are a member of PETA, I don’t really care. You can tell me that birds are creatures with feelings, and I’ll let you know if you’re right by listening for the sound of their screams when I throw them on my grill.
P.S. One of my favorite books is To Kill a Mockingbird. The irony is not lost on me.