I want a pigeon heart
I’m not a bird watcher. Neither I’m I obsessed with them. I just envy their lifestyles. Direct descendants of dinosaurs, they don’t give a fuck (except the chickens — who give a little too much fuck). They know royal blood gushes awash in their veins with unfettered abandon.
I was flitting in and out of consciousness some time ago after working an 80 hour work week and subconsciously relinquished my sacred controller to Youtube. They have some wizardrly fuckitude technology that garners what you’ve watched in the past and curates a hypnotizing playlist. I sat there helpless for hours glued to the screen when this fucking bird REALLY blew my mind out of the water. It was an Australian species..a Finch..I think. The fellow idler who made the GIF was kind enough to give him a name — Ron. Supposedly, this species has a quite unique way of wooing. The male gathers as much blue shit as he can ( apparently this is like gold to them because they’re stupider than us). This particular one I was watching kleptomaniac-ed blue straws from a poor family’s picnic table — I don’t how they ended up sipping their drinks.
Anyhow, he made multiple trips to and fro the picnic site and a picturesque setting hidden from view where this girl was up on a branch preening her feathers and literally not giving a fuck. This is not a bullshit story I pulled out of my genius hat of tricks. He even brought that family’s van key to her and kept cajoling her to come the fuck down from the branch and check out all his blue shit..and van keys. Eventually, she got tired of him hollering and swooped down for a tender lovemaking session..which was disappointingly brief…from ANY male species’ point of view. The pornhub section has been edited out..because I’m that decent.
It got me thinking. When I was younger, blue shit was deafeningly loud stick shift Acuras and Hondas that lo behold were actually blue. I achieved this by acquiring an aftermarket muffler. I also had ground effects which for you squares who drive factory issue cars, is customization that involves neon lights and a very low ground clearance — it’s a terrible idea especially if your town has potholes. My van keys were club-bar-restaurant hybrids that invited a full blown melee with every drunken step. When I look back, I wonder if I’d have turned out better had I committed myself to one of the vast mental institutions that were readily available. Why couldn’t I be like Ron? Did me and my potential mate need an audience to perform for before we could fuck or even marry? Or help each other move? Why did we feel the urgency to get approval on Fakebook media first? Isn’t that woefully birdbrained?
