Suicide pigeons

View previous topic View next topic Go down

20120326

Post 

Suicide pigeons




The other morning (*cough* early afternoon) I awoke to find, upon lethargically teasing the curtains back to confront the horrible, horrible daylight, a back garden strewn with cascading feathers. Initially, I thought they might be fluffy blossom from the neighbours', erm, fluffy blossom tree (horticulture is not my specialist subject. I'm not even sure horticulture is the right word I'm looking for. That's how unspecialist a subject it is. Botony, perhaps. Plants and all that jazz.) but upon further, reluctant, inspection they were, indeed, bird debris.

My neighbourhood has a lot of cats. I don't like them, personally - too smug. Them, not me. Although they may have a similarly low opinion of my continued presence in their domain. Which, let's face it, any neighbourhood they inhabit is. Those hissing, furballian dickheads don't share. That's not how it works. Anyway, it would have been easy enough to dismiss the discovery of all manner of feathery carnage dancing across the lawn as the remnants of yet another alleged cat-based birdicide (my money would've been on Rosebud, the bastard Siamese from down the road. He always looks shifty. Like he's carrying a knife or something. He probably isn't - that's just my prejudice talking), but out of the corner of my eye I spotted a stunned or stoned pigeon waddling about by the bins in a daze, pissing feathers everywhere as he laughably did so. There's no way Rosebud would've left any witnesses. That's not his style. He'd have gone back for the family. It was then that I noticed a bloody, greasy smear down the lounge window. Taking off my Rolf Harris wobble board and putting on my Columbo thinking mackintosh, I deduced that there had been a violent coming together between those age old enemies: the pigeon and the double-glazing.

But I should've guessed that from the start as, weirdly, in the few years I've lived where I sort of live (does it count as living if you don't really take part except under extreme duress?) there have been multiple bird/house collisions, resulting in a number of fatalities and at least one assisted suicide.

The first I remember was, again, a pigeon, which announced itself in the early evening sunshine, sauntering up and down the patio with its head dragging on the ground; its obviously snapped neck lolloping from side to side like a string of overcooked spaghetti. He seemed happy enough with his day's work, but there was a feeling from within the household that it was more than a flesh wound and that the humane thing to do would be to bash his f*cking brains in with a rock. Although, as it turned out, no-one could find a big enough rock to get the job done properly, so we had to go at it with a claw hammer.

I don't know if you've ever seen a bird's head explode, but it's less cool than it sounds. Mildly harrowing, in fact.

Compassionately, we gave him a dignified send off by burying him in the patch of mud by the shed that the neighbourhood cats squabble over for shitting rights. Sleep well, brave prince. Until tomorrow when you get dug up and shat on or eaten or both.

The most amusing mismatch was when a tiny sparrow chick decided to take on the shimmery looking-wall with what can only be described as a high-speed, kamikaze head-butt on quite possibly his (or hers - they could all have been hers in this story. But I don't know how to sex birds. Or women.) maiden flight. He certainly seemed a little young to be flying. Maybe that's just my paternal instinct kicking in. The one I conveniently forget in the presence of claw hammers and stricken vertebrates. Blood lust wins out every time. I blame TV. I was sitting in the lounge at the time of the assault, no doubt being mentally conditioned by the aforementioned television into behavioural wrongness and insatiable consumerism, and literally saw the whole thing play out. The mini sparrow powered into the window with a cartoonish squeak and must've rebounded ten feet, as though trying to pass himself off as a tennis ball. With a beak. Someone should patent that idea, by the way. Balls with beaks. BeakBalls. It's selling itself.

Oddly, he was fine. He just sort of lay there on his back, shaking his head, probably admonishing himself for his clumsiness and the ensuing social embarrassment. He might have been wondering if there was any way of incorporating a face-flattening air disaster into his natural stride in order to make it seem to onlookers as if he meant to do it all along - that's just how he rolls. I do that whenever I stumble in the street. A few further steps down the line, I throw in a less exaggerated stumble - a skip, almost - as though I'm just a spring-heeled, random kind of chap. I don't know why I think it rescues my cool points with anyone who might happen to be watching me (or why they'd be watching me for so long). It probably looks like I have some kind of palsy. I once tried to impress a girl by merely throwing a casual hop into what would have been a simple, run-of-the-mill step up the kerb and onto the pavement, increasing the difficulty of the basic manoeuvre by a barely perceptible fraction of a fraction. But that was all it took to tip me over the edge. In the act of hopping, the laces on one of my boots somehow became entangled in the hooky eyelets (not a technical term) on the other boot, fusing my feet together in mid air, sending me into a mini-sparrow-esque nose-dive into my gravelly, abrasive nemesis' cold embrace.

Flat on my face, the immediate thought running through my (as demonstrated) malfunctioning brain was whether there was any possible way I could make this work for me - perhaps judo-roll out of it; make it appear an act of acrobatic performance theatre, a throwback to the days of Buster Keaton or Charlie Chaplin. Could I get away with that? I was pretty sure I was bleeding profusely from the elbow. How would I explain that? And what the f*ck was I doing anyway? Hopping up the f*cking kerb? What was I expecting to happen? Would the onlooking girl of my recent, fickle fancy do a sudden double-take and be all, like, "Wow! Hold the phone! I never noticed that hideous shitcake before. But now I've seen than he hops up kerbs, I can't imagine my life without him in it. And also I'll do his washing and service his weird sexual peccadilloes. Which will result in more washing. But I'll do it..."? Having dismissed the notion that I could in any way get away with my collapse (although brief consideration was given to turning it into a piece of impromptu break-dance, but I felt a public airing of my worm might be an embarrassment too far at that juncture), and fearing that the absolute nightmare scenario of my imaginary paramour thinking I was badly injured (aside from my obliterated pride) and helping my shamed, pathetic, stricken vessel back onto its moorings (if that's a thing - boats and horticulture. And women. Also kerbs.) and inevitably having to engage with me over what had just transpired - I wasn't ready for that conversation; I may never be - I quickly untangled my boots, dragged my sorry carcass off the ground and double-timed it away from the scene. Did I throw in a less exaggerated hop as I made my exit? Or course I f*cking did. What a prick.

A couple of weeks later, I read in the local paper that the object of my affliction (I think that's the saying) was engaged to be married to someone who can probably walk up kerbs in his sleep. I sometimes wonder if I drove her to it. Things could've been so different. Or exactly the same but with one less incident of public humiliation and minor blood loss.

Anyway, the fun-sized sparrow got his fun-sized senses together after about twenty minutes of perplexed grumbling, and flew away to live a happy, fulfilling life of whatever birds are into. Making nests and shitting on cars. I mean, he might have flown away to that. Or one of the cats got him. It wasn't like I was going to spend twenty minutes staring at a befuddled sparrow while I was watching television. All I know is, he was there, then he wasn't. I've opted for the happy ending. Others may go darker. That's their prerogative.

As for the pigeon who bird-bombed the lounge window the other day, he quickly got over himself and remembered he could fly when I confronted him. I wasn't even carrying the hammer. Perhaps word had got around. He dusted himself off and took to the skies in a whirl of feathers and busted bits, heroically limping to safety... and crashing straight into my bedroom window, bouncing off the garage roof and over the fence into next door's garden.

They've got two cats.
avatar
LeFromage


Number of posts : 26195
Reputation : 425
Registration date : 2007-08-03
Flag/Background : fra

View user profile http://www.flamingbails.forumotion.com

Back to top Go down

- Similar topics
Share this post on: Excite BookmarksDiggRedditDel.icio.usGoogleLiveSlashdotNetscapeTechnoratiStumbleUponNewsvineFurlYahooSmarking

Suicide pigeons :: Comments

avatar

Post on Mon 26 Mar 2012, 11:52 by Brass Monkey

Laughing Now That's What I Call A Blog II

Back to top Go down

avatar

Post on Mon 26 Mar 2012, 11:54 by LeFromage

I forgot to add, if you've been affected by suicidal birds or inept wooing techniques, feel free to share in the comments section.

We can get through this. I have to believe that.

Back to top Go down

avatar

Post on Mon 26 Mar 2012, 16:02 by PeterCS

Similar topics:
....
Mel Gibson commits career suicide/ Possible wife beater ?

Back to top Go down

avatar

Post on Tue 27 Mar 2012, 23:49 by Yorkie Jill

I was once bowling, cricket style, in front of a teacher I had a ginormo crush on - the infamous K. Rudd of not being Australian or a politician, fame - and in my follow through, whilst trying to impress by bowling out my mate, I fell flat on my face. Flat. I'm sure I was red, sweaty, gross, all manner of other things that happen when you're sporting hard, just the kind of thing that 20 something handsome chaps who are also your teacher enjoy*.

To his credit, he didn't smirk or anything, just kind of laughed out loud in an endearing way. Anything he did was endearing. To me. At that point of my hormonal life.

Sorry there are no pigeons in this story.

*In my mind, when I was 15.

"similar topics 'BLINGSIDE VERTICAL SUICIDE DOORS'"

Back to top Go down

avatar

Post on Wed 28 Mar 2012, 00:38 by PeterCS

Never mind. As long as you got off with him. (*) (**)


(*) from afar
(**) in your mind

(... and didn't get too seriously blackened eyes or an irredeemably Gattingian nose. )

Back to top Go down

avatar

Post on Wed 28 Mar 2012, 13:27 by Yorkie Jill

Ha, just in my mind. I still see him around sometimes, in the UK, not here. That would be very odd if he turned up in Magog.

If he hadn't gotten married to some minger, I would for shiz have gone in for the pull once I left. Now he's bald and ageing. As I will be at his age, well, Not the bald part, I hope.

Back to top Go down

avatar

Post on Wed 28 Mar 2012, 13:48 by LeFromage

I tried to impress a girl at school once (when I was of school age too - it's not that kind of story) that I'd never before spoken to by stalkeringly finding out her home address (by phoning all the same surnames in the local directory and hanging up immediately if it turned out she didn't live there - and also when I happened upon the right number) and bombarding her with letters from a mysterious, unnamed admirer.

In my mind it seemed romantic. The kind of thing Tom Hanks would do in an 80s romantic comedy about an unconvincing man trapped in the body of a retarded boy who decides he wants to act exceptionally creepily to the womenfolk of the world and repel them all one by one.

After the fourth letter of gradually teasing out my personal details (which I was certain would be driving her wild with anticipation), I decided to reveal my identity at the end of the fifth tome of clumsy love proclamations and uneasy syntax, erroneously assuming I had some kind of name recognition among my peers.

When I didn't hear back, nor picked up any signal from her at school acknowledging my existence, I wrote a sixth letter, adding my address and phone number.

I eventually got the reply I was looking for, through the post, one wintery morning. It wasn't even on a decent piece of stationary - it was just a scrap of paper in a standard brown envelope. It read, simply: "Stop writing to me."

Still makes the top five of my most successful relationships ever.

Back to top Go down

avatar

Post on Wed 28 Mar 2012, 19:09 by Yorkie Jill

That is hugely stalkerish. It was decent of her to not embarrass you about it in front of everyone. Did you keep the reply or were you ashamed and hated her for it?

I embarrassed myself hugely when my friend dared me to buy the aforementioned chap a valentine's day present and write a note and leave it in their staff room. I'm surprised to this day that he didn't report me for reverse sexual harassment. And that he still talks to me.

Back to top Go down

avatar

Post on Wed 28 Mar 2012, 19:23 by PeterCS

It's not your bf is it, Jill?

Dello: Oh gosh. That is truly, truly horrible, yeah? Did you do the dirty with her later though?

Back to top Go down

avatar

Post on Wed 28 Mar 2012, 19:28 by Brass Monkey

Shocked Jesus Dello! That's certainly a story.

You sound a lot like a mate of mine.

I haven't really got any 'unrequited' stories to make you or Jill feel better about yourselves. Gentle pats on the shoulder for you both though.

Back to top Go down

avatar

Post on Wed 28 Mar 2012, 21:07 by Yorkie Jill

nope, still my ex-teacher. We just have awkward 'hi'...'hi'...'what are you up to now?'...'oh, y'know...' shifty eye conversations whenever we see each other. Which isn't often, fortunately. And he obviously trusts me not to be a stalker anymore as we are 'friends' on the magikal portal that is facebook.

Did you go to her house, Dello?

Back to top Go down

avatar

Post on Thu 29 Mar 2012, 11:21 by LeFromage

I was only young. 15, perhaps. It could've been interpreted as endearing - that was certainly how I planned to defend it in court.

She was in the year above, and left a few months after (at the completion of the secondary school cycle, not having been taken into protective custody and rehoused and given a new identity). So I didn't have to hide away in shame for too long.

I did, however, see her again a couple of years later as (which was news to me) she turned out to be a friend of a neighbour friend of mine and just happened to be hanging out when I and a bunch of buddies popped around for a late night whatever it is teenagers used to do late at night. Sit around listening to the Smiths and looking serious or contemplative or constipated, I suppose.

It could've been awkward. But I'm not sure she even knew who I was. Still. Although she must've made the connection as I had a similar address to her friend and the exact same name as that lunatic who used to write her pathetic desperation prose for a brief period.

Or maybe I really made that little an impression. Perhaps it was a common occurrence, people sending her weird correspondence. I was just one of many.

We didn't speak. Which was pretty much in keeping with our relationship the whole way through.

Some might even say it wasn't a real relationship.

But they'd be wrong.

Back to top Go down

avatar

Post on Thu 29 Mar 2012, 13:01 by PeterCS

It's the thought that counts.


The quiet, psychopathic thought.

Back to top Go down

Post on Mon 12 May 2014, 13:57 by lardbucket

... any update on the birds, Dello? Outstanding blogging.

Back to top Go down

avatar

Post on Mon 12 May 2014, 21:36 by LeFromage

All quiet on the feathery front. They must've gathered the community together and finally gotten to the bottom of the difference between thick glass and thin air.

Although there are a f*ck load more cats around these parts than there used to be...

Back to top Go down

Post on Wed 14 May 2014, 12:02 by lardbucket

Haha. Are they fat and afflicted by featherballs?

Back to top Go down

avatar

Post on Sun 29 Jun 2014, 11:57 by PeterCS

Outstanding, but sporadic.

Back to top Go down

Post on Mon 28 Jul 2014, 06:36 by lardbucket

Dello wrote:The other morning (*cough* early afternoon) I awoke to find, upon lethargically teasing the curtains back to confront the horrible, horrible daylight, a back garden strewn with cascading feathers. Initially, I thought they might be fluffy blossom from the neighbours', erm, fluffy blossom tree (horticulture is not my specialist subject. I'm not even sure horticulture is the right word I'm looking for. That's how unspecialist a subject it is. Botony, perhaps. Plants and all that jazz.) but upon further, reluctant, inspection they were, indeed, bird debris.

My neighbourhood has a lot of cats. I don't like them, personally - too smug. Them, not me. Although they may have a similarly low opinion of my continued presence in their domain. Which, let's face it, any neighbourhood they inhabit is. Those hissing, furballian dickheads don't share. That's not how it works. Anyway, it would have been easy enough to dismiss the discovery of all manner of feathery carnage dancing across the lawn as the remnants of yet another alleged cat-based birdicide (my money would've been on Rosebud, the bastard Siamese from down the road. He always looks shifty. Like he's carrying a knife or something. He probably isn't - that's just my prejudice talking), but out of the corner of my eye I spotted a stunned or stoned pigeon waddling about by the bins in a daze, pissing feathers everywhere as he laughably did so. There's no way Rosebud would've left any witnesses. That's not his style. He'd have gone back for the family. It was then that I noticed a bloody, greasy smear down the lounge window. Taking off my Rolf Harris wobble board and putting on my Columbo thinking mackintosh, I deduced that there had been a violent coming together between those age old enemies: the pigeon and the double-glazing.

But I should've guessed that from the start as, weirdly, in the few years I've lived where I sort of live (does it count as living if you don't really take part except under extreme duress?) there have been multiple bird/house collisions, resulting in a number of fatalities and at least one assisted suicide.

The first I remember was, again, a pigeon, which announced itself in the early evening sunshine, sauntering up and down the patio with its head dragging on the ground; its obviously snapped neck lolloping from side to side like a string of overcooked spaghetti. He seemed happy enough with his day's work, but there was a feeling from within the household that it was more than a flesh wound and that the humane thing to do would be to bash his f*cking brains in with a rock. Although, as it turned out, no-one could find a big enough rock to get the job done properly, so we had to go at it with a claw hammer.

I don't know if you've ever seen a bird's head explode, but it's less cool than it sounds. Mildly harrowing, in fact.

Compassionately, we gave him a dignified send off by burying him in the patch of mud by the shed that the neighbourhood cats squabble over for shitting rights. Sleep well, brave prince. Until tomorrow when you get dug up and shat on or eaten or both.

The most amusing mismatch was when a tiny sparrow chick decided to take on the shimmery looking-wall with what can only be described as a high-speed, kamikaze head-butt on quite possibly his (or hers - they could all have been hers in this story. But I don't know how to sex birds. Or women.) maiden flight. He certainly seemed a little young to be flying. Maybe that's just my paternal instinct kicking in. The one I conveniently forget in the presence of claw hammers and stricken vertebrates. Blood lust wins out every time. I blame TV. I was sitting in the lounge at the time of the assault, no doubt being mentally conditioned by the aforementioned television into behavioural wrongness and insatiable consumerism, and literally saw the whole thing play out. The mini sparrow powered into the window with a cartoonish squeak and must've rebounded ten feet, as though trying to pass himself off as a tennis ball. With a beak. Someone should patent that idea, by the way. Balls with beaks. BeakBalls. It's selling itself.

Oddly, he was fine. He just sort of lay there on his back, shaking his head, probably admonishing himself for his clumsiness and the ensuing social embarrassment. He might have been wondering if there was any way of incorporating a face-flattening air disaster into his natural stride in order to make it seem to onlookers as if he meant to do it all along - that's just how he rolls. I do that whenever I stumble in the street. A few further steps down the line, I throw in a less exaggerated stumble - a skip, almost - as though I'm just a spring-heeled, random kind of chap. I don't know why I think it rescues my cool points with anyone who might happen to be watching me (or why they'd be watching me for so long). It probably looks like I have some kind of palsy. I once tried to impress a girl by merely throwing a casual hop into what would have been a simple, run-of-the-mill step up the kerb and onto the pavement, increasing the difficulty of the basic manoeuvre by a barely perceptible fraction of a fraction. But that was all it took to tip me over the edge. In the act of hopping, the laces on one of my boots somehow became entangled in the hooky eyelets (not a technical term) on the other boot, fusing my feet together in mid air, sending me into a mini-sparrow-esque nose-dive into my gravelly, abrasive nemesis' cold embrace.

Flat on my face, the immediate thought running through my (as demonstrated) malfunctioning brain was whether there was any possible way I could make this work for me - perhaps judo-roll out of it; make it appear an act of acrobatic performance theatre, a throwback to the days of Buster Keaton or Charlie Chaplin. Could I get away with that? I was pretty sure I was bleeding profusely from the elbow. How would I explain that? And what the f*ck was I doing anyway? Hopping up the f*cking kerb? What was I expecting to happen? Would the onlooking girl of my recent, fickle fancy do a sudden double-take and be all, like, "Wow! Hold the phone! I never noticed that hideous shitcake before. But now I've seen than he hops up kerbs, I can't imagine my life without him in it. And also I'll do his washing and service his weird sexual peccadilloes. Which will result in more washing. But I'll do it..."? Having dismissed the notion that I could in any way get away with my collapse (although brief consideration was given to turning it into a piece of impromptu break-dance, but I felt a public airing of my worm might be an embarrassment too far at that juncture), and fearing that the absolute nightmare scenario of my imaginary paramour thinking I was badly injured (aside from my obliterated pride) and helping my shamed, pathetic, stricken vessel back onto its moorings (if that's a thing - boats and horticulture. And women. Also kerbs.) and inevitably having to engage with me over what had just transpired - I wasn't ready for that conversation; I may never be - I quickly untangled my boots, dragged my sorry carcass off the ground and double-timed it away from the scene. Did I throw in a less exaggerated hop as I made my exit? Or course I f*cking did. What a prick.

A couple of weeks later, I read in the local paper that the object of my affliction (I think that's the saying) was engaged to be married to someone who can probably walk up kerbs in his sleep. I sometimes wonder if I drove her to it. Things could've been so different. Or exactly the same but with one less incident of public humiliation and minor blood loss.

Anyway, the fun-sized sparrow got his fun-sized senses together after about twenty minutes of perplexed grumbling, and flew away to live a happy, fulfilling life of whatever birds are into. Making nests and shitting on cars. I mean, he might have flown away to that. Or one of the cats got him. It wasn't like I was going to spend twenty minutes staring at a befuddled sparrow while I was watching television. All I know is, he was there, then he wasn't. I've opted for the happy ending. Others may go darker. That's their prerogative.  

As for the pigeon who bird-bombed the lounge window the other day, he quickly got over himself and remembered he could fly when I confronted him. I wasn't even carrying the hammer. Perhaps word had got around. He dusted himself off and took to the skies in a whirl of feathers and busted bits, heroically limping to safety... and crashing straight into my bedroom window, bouncing off the garage roof and over the fence into next door's garden.

They've got two cats.

You might want to re-think that (bolded) bit

Back to top Go down

avatar

Post on Fri 20 Mar 2015, 23:21 by LeFromage

"Resheathing my Jimmy Saville medallion..."

Back to top Go down

avatar

Post on Tue 14 Jul 2015, 22:28 by Lara Lara Laughs

Hahaha never seen this. Please blog more, I beg of you.

Back to top Go down

avatar

Post on Wed 19 Aug 2015, 00:15 by PeterCS

Pigeons are so yesterday?

Back to top Go down

Post on Fri 03 Nov 2017, 05:52 by lardbucket

coteness

Back to top Go down

Post  by Sponsored content

Back to top Go down

View previous topic View next topic Back to top


 
Permissions in this forum:
You cannot reply to topics in this forum