There I was, in dreamland, about to be mounted by the loveliest of specimens. She spits on her palm, lathers the tip, and positions me for entry, when…
No. It can’t be. Please resume dream.
Fuck! This little bird is killing me.
New Age gurus would insist this bird contains the soul of a departed trying to communicate with me. So, I lie here wondering: Who could it be?
Perhaps it’s my cat, Daisy, who died of stomach cancer five years ago. If so, what would she be trying to tell me? “Being dead sucks, dude.” Or, maybe she’s letting me know she’s fine and happy, soaring over my neighborhood, dropping seed pellets on the car I just washed. Or, maybe she’s letting me know she didn’t have cancer, and the vet euthanized her to drain a quick $2000 from my bank account. Hm.
Most mediums would try to convince me it is a dead relative–my pop, perhaps. He died a few years ago. He’d probably ask me to leave a nice bowl of Budweiser on the patio. I can imagine him telling me to get the hell out of bed, cut my hair, and go make some money. Or, maybe he’s asking me to place $20 on “over” on the Phillies game tonight. Can’t be.
Ah, it could be the soul of someone who used to live here. Maybe they were murdered, cut into tiny bits, and shoved down the garbage disposal. Ew! No wonder the thing makes so much racket, even when grinding something simple as egg shells. I’ll check online for missing persons. Ooh, that reminds me–I love that band. “Walking in L.A., dum de dum…”
This bird is a dead celebrity. Yep. Elvis? MJ? Nah. Couldn’t be. Let me Google who died this week. Oh, fuck! Dennis Farina died this week! That sucks. He died in Scottsdale of a blood clot in his lung. Damn. What would Dennis Farina be telling me? He starred in one of my favorite movies, Bottle Shock. That’s it! He’s reminding me to drink lots of red wine to avoid clots. He was also in Snatch. Nope. Not touching that one.
God damn it! Who am I kidding? This is simply an asshole bird. It’s probably hungry and expects me to toss some stale bread out back. Not happening. I never touch the stuff. Too many carbs.
“Hey bird, shut it. Bread is bad for you. Gluten will fuck your shit up. Get lost!”
“Mamamaraooooooow!” – Syd, the cat.
The little bastard is taunting my cats. What a prick. “Cheep” means “Nana, nana, poo poo” in bird language. Maybe I should let Syd outside to eat the annoyance.
“Meememamama ehehehe.” – Symon, the other cat.
Headphones. I need headphones.
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