. . . . .
I almost got hit yesterday. It was seriously the scariest moment of my life. I was on this mailbox around three o'clock in the afternoon, minding my own business. Watching the bees pollinate the buds on a gigantic maple tree was putting me in a good mood. I knew it would only be a few more days before the leaves really started to bust out. Big leaves on big trees means party central for me. You have no idea what kind of wild times go on behind the green curtain. Anyway, I'm just sitting there, relaxing, checking out the bees when this wild man comes barreling down the road in his sparkling new Volvo.
"Look at this assh..." is all I got out before the squealing of his tires marked his disembarkation from the pavement, and he began rocketing toward the very mailbox I was lounging on. I kicked off hard, flapping as fast as my little body would allow. I felt the car's side mirror graze my tail feathers, and then I heard the mailbox explode into a pile of toothpicks.
"WTF, BRO?" I was pissed, and this guy was just sitting in his car shaking his head. He didn't get out to see what the damage was. It didn't look like he even considered checking if there had been any victims of his recklessness. He just put his foot on the gas and sped away.
"Oh, great. A hit and run, just my luck," I fumed to no one that was listening. "Did you see the plate? Did anyone get his license plate number?" I looked around for witnesses. "No? Nobody?" No one had.
Fast forward to this morning. I was perched on a fence post a few yards from the pile of tinder that once was a mailbox waiting for a little bastard. A crow friend of mine had identified him as Steven Tittle, the man with a loaded gun that just loved shooting it off all willy-billy. Sure enough that same car came flying around a curve like spit from a shaking dog, but he had to hit the brakes hard and come to a skidding stop. I had gotten some of these shaking dogs to drag a bunch of garbage into the road, forcing any drivers to stop. Fortunately, this any driver just so happened to be Steven Tittle, my nemesis.
"Say you're sorry, dickhead," I called to Steven Tittle. He ignored me, so I yelled it, "I want an apology, fuck-nuts!" He looked at me curiously, like he had never heard a bird yell before. He shook his head and turned his attention back toward the pile of garbage preventing his passage.
"This is your last chance, Steven Tittle!" I screamed as I armed the switch.
There was no response, so I did what any respectable bird would. I blew that mother fucker out of his pretty little Volvo and straight into outer space.
"Tell your maker he's a dickhead for making a dickhead like you, Steven Tittle."
