They say it’s good luck when a bird poops on you. Obviously “they” are idiots because I’m pretty sure it’s way more lucky to NOT be pooped on.
I’m completely ok with admitting to you I don’t like birds. I mean, they are pretty scary. They fly in your face, poop in your hair and make that awful squealing sound that makes you think Godzilla is attacking. Few friends of mine share this mindset with me; some try to convince me birds are beautiful creatures that should be cherished and loved by all. Screw that. I see them as a cause for anxiety and psycho rants about disease. Pretty sure I’ve never seen any other so called beautiful creature steal an entire hot dog from someone or deep throat pizza crust.
Before PETA gets its panties in a knot I’ll say I would never harm a bird — except maybe a pigeon or a seagull since I can’t fathom their existence. Furthermore it’s a criminal offense to harm a bird in Canada and offenders could face up to six months in jail and a $2,000 fine. Hardly worth it, right? Well, unless they fly in your face because then they have it coming. I saw The Birds. I know they are vengeful bitches with all the pecking and the flapping and their cawing and their crapping. Luckily the only time I’m ever been attacked I was armed with a plastic bag over my hand and was able to defend myself, much to the elderly bystanders' dismay.
Can’t birds just learn their place in society and be those beautiful creatures so many of my friends want them to be? Or are we doomed to protect our faces and food from their turn-of-the-century street rat ways? I, for one, am not ready to be a bird whisperer and will continue using Bruce Lee moves on these disgusting disease carriers until Big Bird has his way with me.
This Neurotic Life is an original column for The Little Red Umbrella about the trials and tribulations of being neurotic written by our Managing Editor Cody McGraw. See more editions here.
Photo by Carmen Cheung