There's a Pigeon Squashed on the Street. Ew.


(Warning! The following story contains descriptions of horrific gore and, like swimming, should not be attempted (read) until an hour after you have eaten. And no diving allowed. Thank you.)

So yesterday, when walking from the train to the bus in our journey to work, I trailed behind Timotei and his friend (whom we carpooled with) DJ Smiggles. I decided to cut through the street (avoiding the crosswalk) to get to the line for the bus we need. As I approached the end of the line, I saw Timotei and DJ Smiggles pointing behind me at the ground and laughing. So when I entered the line, I noticed that there was a flat out (no pun intended) bird roadkill in the center of the busway.

Now I would consider myself a smart man. I graduated from college with honors. I have a challenging occupation. I enjoy long walks on the beach and Apple Jacks (e-mail me if you're interested ladies). So, I put two and two together. I mean, I'm not stupid. I read books. I solve Jumbles and Sudokus. I am open to the idea of an open relationship (ladies, ladies, please, one at a time). So I was certain that I stepped in it. It was disgusting to just look at. Think of a gray gruel wrapped in a feathery boa, but less attractive. Just the thought of me stepping in that pigeon pancake was enough to make me sweat out of embarrassment, out of disgust, out of panic.

Which foot had dipped in the dodo? I felt it had to be my left foot because it was getting the most slippery from the perspiration. At least I had hoped it was sweat. But for moments, it felt like the buzzard's gizzards were lining the inside of my shoe; bathing my sole.

Thoughts ran through my head. I'd have to of course throw away the shoes or even burn them. A good excuse to buy a new pair. Can I contract worms through this or even worse... The Bird Flu. I have been feeling a bit sickly lately. And I've been farting a lot.

There's something incredibly sad about a bird flattened on a street; more so than other animals. Birds represent all that is free. They fly. They soar. They're majestic with their wings spread.

I entered the bus and sat down next to the others. And with a whimper and a whisper, I asked for confirmation. Did I or didn't I step on the bird? Did I or didn't I want to even know? Man up Rick. Just swallow (pun intended) the truth. And as a harvest moon rose over Cyberland, Timotei said to me the one word I had been longing to hear (but not from you ladies just to be clear): "No."

Apparently I had just barely missed that kaka. That's what they were laughing at. DJ Smiggles said to me that he saw me heading straight for it. "Oh man, he's gonna step on the bird!" And without even a heads up, I missed it. I'm sure it was partly due to my psychic sense. I have an innate awareness of danger. Sort of like a spider sense tingling, but more manly sounding. Ladies dig men who think about the future.

So that was yesterday. Today I was well aware of the bird droppings. Eyes to the ground, I saw the bird up close. It seemed to look more solid; more whole. I could make out more of the head and innards this time. It was because I was staring at a second bird squashed on the street. Disgusting. Both birds became speed bumps for buses. No mere coincidence that two birds were similarly dead within feet of each other. The buses don't drive fast through there. Must be some sort of evil were-car killing pigeons at midnight (I'm into late night movies). Or some fat kid stomping on their brains to death (I'm very robust). Or more scientifically, maybe God's smashing them (I'm a spiritual man). But one thing is certain, my feet sweat and you really didn't need to know that.



Call me at 555-7382 for a good time massaging my bunions,

Ricky
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