[PHOTOS] This Seagull Ate A Whole Hot Dog But I Dropped My Camera In The Ocean

The Santa Monica Pier attracts locals and tourists alike, but today I witnessed a new visitor to the Golden State’s iconic landmark. I saw a seagull eat a whole hot dog in front of a crowd of horrified onlookers.

The following photos are extremely graphic and should only be seen by the steel-nerved. However, I have dropped my camera in the Pacific Ocean and I am sorry about that.

There I was, enjoying my crab cakes and blue margarita at Rusty’s Surf Ranch when this little asshole swooped in from nowhere. Look at that face. Look at those eyes. Those are the Devil’s eyes. The sky rodent does not just want my crab crumbs; it wants to ruin my day. It looked into my soul and I knew its name.

Gull Prime.

Had my tequilafingers not slipped from the camera in the aftermath, you could be seeing this. I feel bad.

The beast was not sated by my tossing of the neighboring table’s errant french fry. “Thief!” I heard from somewhere behind me, but I could pay no heed to their cries as the seagull gobbled its prize and locked eyes with the very sun.

It cawed.

Clouds gathered.

A chill wind swept the beach.

Look to the horizon. The gulls. They are coming.

This traumatic tableau is more effective while looking at an actual photographic representation, but believe me, it was dramatic and awful. My sister said I’d break the fragile camera, but no, I had to insist on taking it after Dad died. He photographed wildlife with respect and wonder. I dropped it where sea lions have definitely pooped.

The ferris wheel froze. The buskers ceased their singing. The pier was circled by a wall of seagulls. That Family With French Fries was praying. And Gull Prime? It stared at a baby holding a Jr. Hot Dog from the Bubba Gump kid’s menu. My friends, the beast did not even fly to the child.

It walked.

Its steps echoed into our collective memory. “What did it sound like?” grandchildren will ask the survivors. “Like the heavy march of a cold god,” we shall solemnly whisper while staring into a dying fire.

I will never forget it. You will never see it. I am such an idiot.

Gull Prime hopped onto the infant’s lap and looked down the length of her hot dog. I know not if this child already knew anything of fear, but we all watched on as she learned.

That’s when it happened.

Gull Prime opened its beak. Slow. Calculated. Spiteful. It slid its maw around the end of the bun — yes, dear reader, there was a bun — and it pushed its head forward.

If seagulls have eyelids, we witnessed no evidence of it that terrible day.

We could do nothing but submit to the bird’s silent rampage. We became united through our pain. The nearby caricature artist silently wept into her paints. The French Fry Family From Earlier quit their praying, for their god was not here. The surfer over there put his shirt back on.

As for me? Why, I took the most powerful photograph and it would have been posted right there. I squandered my inheritance on photography school. Most nights, I wake in a cold sweat frightened of what could have been. Most days, I live what is. I don’t know how I can pay my rent if my camera — my livelihood — remains lost to the watery depths. I should be saving money to fund a new path forward, but I throw my cash at bottles of whiskey, nights of painlessness, and mornings of reckoning. Gravity and salt water have left me a broken creature and I do not know which way is up nor out. This seagull was out of control, okay?

And there it is.

Gull Prime swallows the last of the $12 hot dog and swoops away. It did not explain why it came. It did not tell us where it was going. It did not even say what was to become of us, the witnesses of its tyranny.

A short, wide-eyed woman (pictured above if I can drain the planet’s oceans this weekend) stepped forward and raised her tattooed arms to the sky.

“We are forgiven,” she plainly droned. One by one, onlookers raised their arms. Even I, trusty camera in hand, instinctually pushed my palms upward.

At last, I felt calm. I felt safe. I felt as though I was again the master of my own domain. The poor child’s hot dog sacrifice had wiped humanity’s slate clean. The birds disappeared into the parting clouds and our sun shone brightly once more.

Unrelated: I bent down to tie my shoe and somehow kicked my camera off of the pier.

Miraculously, I caught it with catlike reflexes. Five minutes later I was handed a celebratory frozen yogurt and dropped the camera with my dominant yogurt hand. That’s when it vanished into the unforgiving sea.

The froyo was vanilla and I hated it.