Thursday, June 08, 2006

Starlings are flying chunks of fuck.

I was just reading Governessa McPeabs saga of bird struggle. It seems that, from time to time, we must indulge in an interspecies grapple with bird. Paul K. nee H. had a dove living on his porch that I thought was adorable but, he assured me, was definitely an asshole. The Governess' beef is with mockingbirds, the scourge of many a citizen. They tend to defend their brood with misplaced and amoral tenacity and imitate car alarms--which is proof that asshole is a disease that jumps species.

We had no beef with the mockers growing up. For ma famille, there has been only one aerial Nemesis: the Starling. A dirty, pathetic, useless scumbag of a turd-sucking bird. I don't actually know if the Story of How the Babyraping British Assbirds Came to Despoil America that I was told is true or not. I prefer to think that it is either a) true or b) better.

So, as it has been told to me, Starlings were brought to the United States by some dipshit-faced, kaka bastard from England who thought it was important that every bird represented in Shakespeare should live in the United States, too. So he made a list and started crossing birds off. It was like My Name Is Earl except it was My Name Is the Earl of Birdfuckingshamshire.

Asshole brought a flock of Starlings to Central Park and released them. They were all dead within weeks. Still, bitchass didn't take the hint. He brings another flock and sets them free, and I guess these motherfucking Starlings were led the motherfucking Starling
Spartacus because this time, motherfuckers THRIVED, and before long were pushing good old American birds off the block.

All of us were trained in Starling hating from a very early age, and wherever we find the opportunity, we kill them. Or at least hurt them. If nothing else, yell at them from passing cars. Even my uncle, when he's not drunk or complaining or passive-aggressively groveling, is ridding our world of Starlings. If I had a starling in my hands right now, I would tie it down and take a shit on it. Just like I would John Cornyn.

In the interest of full-disclosure, I also once hurt a bat with a badminton racket that had gotten inside our house. We were honestly trying to goad the bat out of the window, and things got hectic. Listen, bats of the world, I have no beef with you. It all happened so fast, and it was either him or me. Listen to your hearts, bats*, and you'll see that I'm not lying.

*You know, with your sonar.


brownpau said...

The first thing I thought of when I saw the word "Starling":

"Good nutrition has given you some length of bone, but you're not more than one generation from poor white trash, are you, Agent Starling? And that accent you've tried so desperately to shed? Pure West Virginia. What's your father, dear? Is he a coal miner? Does he stink of the lamb? You know how quickly the boys found you... all those tedious sticky fumblings in the back seats of cars... while you could only dream of getting out... getting anywhere... getting all the way to the FBI."

The Governess said...

starling are noisy little effers, and I've been around a lot of them, but they've never attacked me. yet.