Passion Will Not Be Tolerated

Here's an obvious statement: Passion is important in life. Without passion, everyone in the world would sit on their couch all day long, watching Matlock reruns, drooling, and peeing their pants.

Here's another obvious statement: passion can be good, or it can be bad. A lot of great works require passion; I'm thinking of something like the Sistine Chapel here. At the same time, many terrible acts also demand passion, like that whole Holocaust thing.

I bring all of this up because I happen to live right next to some of the most passionate beings on this earth. Unfortunately for me, these particular organisms aren't passionate about music or painting or horticulture, but about pooping. Even more unfortunately, they're passionate about pooping on my stuff.

We have these trees that hang over our driveway, and a family of birds inhabit those trees. I would say that these birds love to crap on my car, but the word 'love' isn't nearly strong enough. An illustration might help here.

I love milkshakes. If I could have one every day, I would. If someone offered me ten milkshakes a day, I probably wouldn't go for that, however. I just need more than milkshakes in my life. I couldn't, for example, install a milkshake machine in my kitchen, cement my mouth to its spout, and then drop out of society so I could have a milkshake orgy all day, every day. That's just absurd. If I wanted to do that, no one would say I love milkshakes; they'd say that I'm a milkshake fanatic. Well, in much the same way, these birds are car poopin' fanatics.

I don't park under those trees too often, but when I do, the birds really put on a show. Let's say there are 5 birds in that nest. According to the hood of my car right now, each one had to have unloaded roughly 4 times last night. I don't know much about bird digestion, but that seems outlandish. I can only think that these birds have such an unnatural passion for this act, they lie in wait for days at a time, storing their ammo. Or maybe my neighbors are encouraging this act by feeding these birds bran and refried beans. I won't know for sure until one finally dies from exertion and I get to perform an autopsy.

How will this happen? I have a plan. The next time I pull into the driveway and I see them ready the artillery, I'm getting out a slingshot and with it, flinging my cat skyward. I've seen her look at those birds; she hates them as much as I do. I'd like to let the whole neighborhood know that feces fever will soon be over.

Posted by Cody at August 9, 2006 6:14 PM