Damn birds been shitting all over my courtyard. I put up spikes over my door and windows. They gave me the claw, moved five feet over, and shit there. Bastards. Finally, I did what most smart people do—I used this thing called “The Interweb” and asked Amazon WTF my options are.
Brilliantly, they suggested the use of a stunt owl. Hmm, are birds that stupid? I’d probably catch the little pricks either fucking it or shitting on it. Still, any shit machine scared away would make it worthwhile, so I bought it.
Cute little fucker. I shall name him “Hootie.”
$18.97 is what he cost. Not bad. He’s pretty imposing, standing on his fake wood stump at around 18 inches. He has big eyes and a swivel head, not unlike me at the bar watching lovely servers bound by.
After a week of Hootie sitting there in my mulch, I do notice a significant decrease in shit puddles. Also, since I like to keep my windows open, I am hearing less chirping. I love Hootie. Yes, I do. My cats? Not so much. Symon jumped on the windowsill and demanded an explanation.
“Yo, Pop. What’s with the bug-eyed lump of plastic?”
“It’s an owl.”
“It’s not an owl. It’s not moving. Hence, that is either a dead owl you nailed to a stump or it’s the worst lawn ornament since the jockey.”
“It’s designed to scare birds away, since you suck at it, Symon.”
“I do not suck at it. I can’t very well scare anything from behind this screen, now can I? What do you expect me to do, insult them? Hey birdie, you’re an incontinent lump of useless feathers, more suited to be in my belly. Ooh, scary.”
“Shut it. Good thing you are cute, because you are certainly an asshole cat.”
“An asshole who doesn’t waste twenty bucks on a horrible replica. Look at him. Hootie? A bit on the nose, Pop. He just sits there. His head rotates three hundred sixty degrees. Owls do one-eighties, dickhead. This dumb Exorcist movie extra wannabe ain’t scarin’ nobody.”
“We’ll see. Oh, and go lick yourself.”
Then, it dawned on me that women use stunt birds like this to scare away shitty men. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve played Hootie for numerous women. Fuck! They invite me out to sit next to them and scare away douche-boys. I sit there swiveling my head, I don’t get laid, and I don’t even get $18.97 for my services.
In fact, a gorgeous specimen I’ve seen out a few times strolled into my watering hole last night with her owl. She looked awesome as always. He wore a horrible paisley blue button down. She looked at me, smiled, then held his hand. I cried Tito’s tears and stayed away. Worked like a charm. I need to find a way to tell the replica from the real thing. Up to this point, I’m clueless. Guess it’s bird karma.
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