Well, it’s official: I’m afraid of birds.
I was already afraid of sunshine, under the theory that a day without sunshine is like a day without melanoma. And I’m uneasy around those plastic things that hold six-packs together, always worried I might get my head stuck in one. I’m afraid of a lot of things.
Now this bird flu business has me worried. I already circle the parking lot twelve times to find a space that isn’t under a tree and directly in the crapping zone. If birds start getting the flu, they’ll be firing from both ends. There aren’t enough squeegees in the world.
I’ve got my fingers crossed that global warming will kill all of the birds before they start hurling on me. With any luck, someday the birds will just burst into flames in mid flight. Problem solved. But until that happy day, I’m thinking of moving to Florida. I’m no ornithologist/meteorologist, but I’m pretty sure birds don’t like hurricanes.
The media always focuses on the negative aspects of hurricanes. They never mention how it helps clear out the birds for a while. Just once I would like to hear a news report with an upbeat take:
“Thanks to hurricane Wilma, nothing has crapped on our Eyewitness News van for hours. Back to you, Bob.”