JOURNAL BLOGS
Sometimes, there ain’t enough column space...
Posted by Scott Spielman
at 11:32 PM | Comments
There’s a marksman in my neighborhood.
I was victimized on Sunday. I never had any advance warning nor did I see the suspect after the attack. He waited, struck and disappeared in the blink of an eye, leaving only his handiwork as evidence.
I was riding my bike down the sidewalk with my son, Henry. We were going at a pretty good clip, too, because he likes to show off his speed.
We were under a tree that stretched a misshapen branch over the sidewalk when it happened; a cold substance hit my elbow with a wet smack.
I stared in growing horror at the nickel-sized glob of bird dung that slowly seeped into my shirt—a brown and white soup that threatened to trickle down my arm.
“Gross!” I shouted. Henry laughed and nearly lost his balance.
I suppose you could say that this was just some cosmic coincidence; some mathematical anomaly that could, with enough time, happen to anyone.
I don’t think so.
This was planned. This was an ambush.
It must’ve been two birds. No single fowl could plan and execute such a well-timed strike. There must’ve been one on lookout that saw us approach.
“Wait for it, wait for it,” he probably squawked, chirping through the outstretched feathers on his wing so as not to give away their position.
“Now!” he then shouted and the disgusting missile was on its way. “Direct hit!”
By the time I got over my shock and disgust and looked over my shoulder, they were already gone, probably flying off in search of a newly waxed car.
“That’s pretty gross, dad,” Henry said when we stopped.
“It sure is,” I answered. “Still want that ice cream?”
“Yep.”
So did I. Not chocolate, though. Not anymore.
Comments
« Back to Bloggin' on the Edge
Feeds
