It being 4 in the morning and I can't sleep, I was reminiscing a little bit. Here's an interesting anecdote that bubbled up from the murk.
I have a friend named Jeremy. Known this guy for a little more than 20 years now, since we were both kids lighting garbage can lids on fire with his mother's nail polish.
Anyway, about 10 years ago, I was staying with Jeremy at his girlfriend's dad's place. It was just Jeremy, his girlfriend and I. Her dad was usually absent for some odd reason. Anyhow, I digress.
Jeremy became fascinated with pirates. So naturally, he does what every red-blooded American man does when he becomes fascinated with pirates -- he went out and bought a parrot.
It never did learn to talk. It never did shut the hell up, though, either. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, it would sit on its perch in its cage in the kitchen, and it would squawk. Non. Fucking. Stop. And this goddamn thing was loud. He gave it a week.
Finally, in a drunken rage one fine, clear Friday evening near sundown, he put on work gloves -- mind, this was one big, mean fucking parrot -- grabbed a roll of duct tape, grabbed the flapping, squawking parrot, and duct-taped its beak shut.
Was he done, though? Ohhhh, no. He'd just gotten started, and he wasn't going to quit, to paraphrase the song, until he was satisfied. So he then duct-taped its legs together. Well, now the parrot was really and for true angry. It continued to make sort of grunting, sort of squawking, sort of whuffling noises, right through the duct tape. And as some of you ladies and gentlement may or may not be aware, angry and frightened parrots have a tendency to shit. Voluminously. And Lord, how it smells.
Now I had never seen Jeremy engage in any particular sport, other than target-shooting street lights with his (semi-automatic only) Steyr AUG. But somehow, from somewhere, he had acquired a tennis racket. Keep in mind, I'd never seen Jeremy and a tennis racket anywhere within shouting distance of each other prior to this particular warm and cozy evening.
Out comes the tennis racket. Back on go the gloves. Out comes the bird, now liberally coated from claws to breastbone in a thick, syrupy layer of its own guano.
A minor diversion to describe the local topography, if I may be indulged. Jeremy's girlfriend's dad's house was nestled in the crook of two particularly steep hills, up and through which wound a gravel road. Perhaps one hundred fifty feet down was a small two-lane highway. Flanking the house on either side were pine trees. However, the view down to the highway was perfectly clear and free of any kind of obstacles.
Clomp, clomp, clomp! go Jeremy's boots.
Grunt! SQUAUWRFFFUFFLE!!! CRAP! goes the bird from hell.
creeaaakBANG! goes the front door behind Jeremy and I.
wwwwhhhhiissssssBLAP!!! goes the tennis racket.
Thus, we arrive at an interesting technical detail: Birds apparently put their legs to active use during flight for purposes of balance, which is why -- ordinarily -- a bird in flight does not spiral like a football and become intimately acquainted with asphalt at great velocity.
I have a friend named Jeremy. Known this guy for a little more than 20 years now, since we were both kids lighting garbage can lids on fire with his mother's nail polish.
Anyway, about 10 years ago, I was staying with Jeremy at his girlfriend's dad's place. It was just Jeremy, his girlfriend and I. Her dad was usually absent for some odd reason. Anyhow, I digress.
Jeremy became fascinated with pirates. So naturally, he does what every red-blooded American man does when he becomes fascinated with pirates -- he went out and bought a parrot.
It never did learn to talk. It never did shut the hell up, though, either. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, it would sit on its perch in its cage in the kitchen, and it would squawk. Non. Fucking. Stop. And this goddamn thing was loud. He gave it a week.
Finally, in a drunken rage one fine, clear Friday evening near sundown, he put on work gloves -- mind, this was one big, mean fucking parrot -- grabbed a roll of duct tape, grabbed the flapping, squawking parrot, and duct-taped its beak shut.
Was he done, though? Ohhhh, no. He'd just gotten started, and he wasn't going to quit, to paraphrase the song, until he was satisfied. So he then duct-taped its legs together. Well, now the parrot was really and for true angry. It continued to make sort of grunting, sort of squawking, sort of whuffling noises, right through the duct tape. And as some of you ladies and gentlement may or may not be aware, angry and frightened parrots have a tendency to shit. Voluminously. And Lord, how it smells.
Now I had never seen Jeremy engage in any particular sport, other than target-shooting street lights with his (semi-automatic only) Steyr AUG. But somehow, from somewhere, he had acquired a tennis racket. Keep in mind, I'd never seen Jeremy and a tennis racket anywhere within shouting distance of each other prior to this particular warm and cozy evening.
Out comes the tennis racket. Back on go the gloves. Out comes the bird, now liberally coated from claws to breastbone in a thick, syrupy layer of its own guano.
A minor diversion to describe the local topography, if I may be indulged. Jeremy's girlfriend's dad's house was nestled in the crook of two particularly steep hills, up and through which wound a gravel road. Perhaps one hundred fifty feet down was a small two-lane highway. Flanking the house on either side were pine trees. However, the view down to the highway was perfectly clear and free of any kind of obstacles.
Clomp, clomp, clomp! go Jeremy's boots.
Grunt! SQUAUWRFFFUFFLE!!! CRAP! goes the bird from hell.
creeaaakBANG! goes the front door behind Jeremy and I.
wwwwhhhhiissssssBLAP!!! goes the tennis racket.
Thus, we arrive at an interesting technical detail: Birds apparently put their legs to active use during flight for purposes of balance, which is why -- ordinarily -- a bird in flight does not spiral like a football and become intimately acquainted with asphalt at great velocity.
