sirmyk
New Member
I wrote this fun piece of shit one day after finding my car covered in bird droppings. Enjoy. And pick apart if you want.
LITTLE RED ROBIN(S)
Why did you go and crap on my car, little red robin? I just had it washed and now my shiny black sports car has a bright white splotch on the hood the shape of an amoeba, with bumps of seed or grain or whatever it is you pathetic birds eat. Just how much did you have to eat for breakfast, anyway? It’s huge. It looks as though a bucket-load of white paint fell from a hole in the sky and onto my hood. It’s all wet and gooey like paint, too. I don’t see you anywhere nearby to praise your claim to this maliciousness (I bet you’re so proud), but I am sure you’re around here somewhere in the trees of this park, or at least a relative or mate of yours is here to take the punishment for crapping on my once beautiful ride.
I can hear one of you chirping away in the high branches of this here oak I’m leaning against. Is it you? I’m looking, but I don’t see you anywhere. Are you hiding? Doesn’t matter. You’re all the same to me. You all look alike. If I see you it will be the last time we will meet like this. See, I brought a pellet gun with me this time, and I know how to use it. That’s right. You will die today, I promise. Or someone you previously flew with will.
Don’t think I don’t realize it’s you doing the crapping. Every morning I park in this same spot, every afternoon you mark my car, and every evening I have it washed. Won’t you ever learn? I’ll pop you one good--right through those black beady eyes of yours. And later, after I take you down, I’ll find your nest and take a giant crap of my own on it as my way of returning the favor. Sound good? I bet you never thought of that as you sat above my car, looking down, thinking to yourself, ah... fresh meat, or maybe even saying to one of your buddies, ”Hey, Freddie... I bet I can plop a perfect circle on this guy’s car.” “Nah,” he probably replied, “you couldn’t squat a roundie to save your life...” or something like that. Do you red robin folk converse like this? I bet you do.
Ah, now I see you. You’re not in this tree; you’re in the one next to it over here. Your chirping is like laughter from afar. Are you mocking me? Do you think I won’t nail you with a pellet from this gun of mine, little red robin? I could hit you from here, but just in case I’ll get a little closer. That’s better. Ten feet away. I’m right below you and could knock you off that maple branch with a rock if I wanted to. You don’t look like you’d even budge. You’re in my sights now, little birdie. Hold still awhile. All I have to do is squeeze this little trigger with my finger as I breathe out and... pop!
Got’cha. You’re not so tough now, are you? Look at you: flopping to the ground like a paper airplane gone south, twirling in circles. Plop--the same sound your giant white turd made as it landed on my hood, I bet. Ha! Now you’re twitching as I stand before you, with your little red robin wings flapping uselessly, your beak opening and closing as you try calling out for your friends. But guess what? They can’t hear you--you’re dying and you aren’t making any noise from that fish-out-of-water mouth of yours. Never again will you crap on my beautiful ride. Never again will you sing. Kind of makes me want to sing. When the little red robins go a plop, plop, ploppin’... How’s that for a tune? I’d chirp it for you if I had a beak. They’re not the words of the real song, of course, but suitable since you insisted on coving my car in gigantic white bird droppings each day for these last few weeks.
What’s this? Are these friends of yours coming to see you off: one, two, three of them in the branches above? Yeah, I shot your little friend! I popped him good--right between the... well, I got him in the neck at least. See, he’s barely even moving now. Sort of kicking his legs out gingerly. Oh, more of you have come to see. There are eight, nine... ten of you? And more of you are coming? This is what happens when you crap on my car, red robin folk! Crap on my car and I’ll shoot you down like this guy here! Hear me, little red robins! Listen up, pathetic birds, all twenty or thirty of you that are here now.
What the hell is going on? Do you normally flock like this... like the grey cloud of small birds I see coming from across the street? How many of you are there? Hundreds? Thousands? More... you all look the same to me. Ahh! Which one of you crapped on my shoulder? I’ll shoot you all down, every last one of you if I can! Oh, that’s it; no one craps on my head. Now it’s covering my hair, my face, my entire body. And now your flock is by my car--my beautiful, shiny black sports car. And there it goes; now it’s a blotchy white sports car, thank you very much.
And now I see that I am next; you are all coming for me it seems--countless numbers of you, cloud after cloud after cloud of swarming red robins. I never knew there were so many of you that liked to go a ploppin’. At least I got my revenge, you little crapfactories. You left me no choice but to try and run from the inescapable thundershower of white you are bringing me. Why did you go and crap on my car, little red robin?
LITTLE RED ROBIN(S)
Why did you go and crap on my car, little red robin? I just had it washed and now my shiny black sports car has a bright white splotch on the hood the shape of an amoeba, with bumps of seed or grain or whatever it is you pathetic birds eat. Just how much did you have to eat for breakfast, anyway? It’s huge. It looks as though a bucket-load of white paint fell from a hole in the sky and onto my hood. It’s all wet and gooey like paint, too. I don’t see you anywhere nearby to praise your claim to this maliciousness (I bet you’re so proud), but I am sure you’re around here somewhere in the trees of this park, or at least a relative or mate of yours is here to take the punishment for crapping on my once beautiful ride.
I can hear one of you chirping away in the high branches of this here oak I’m leaning against. Is it you? I’m looking, but I don’t see you anywhere. Are you hiding? Doesn’t matter. You’re all the same to me. You all look alike. If I see you it will be the last time we will meet like this. See, I brought a pellet gun with me this time, and I know how to use it. That’s right. You will die today, I promise. Or someone you previously flew with will.
Don’t think I don’t realize it’s you doing the crapping. Every morning I park in this same spot, every afternoon you mark my car, and every evening I have it washed. Won’t you ever learn? I’ll pop you one good--right through those black beady eyes of yours. And later, after I take you down, I’ll find your nest and take a giant crap of my own on it as my way of returning the favor. Sound good? I bet you never thought of that as you sat above my car, looking down, thinking to yourself, ah... fresh meat, or maybe even saying to one of your buddies, ”Hey, Freddie... I bet I can plop a perfect circle on this guy’s car.” “Nah,” he probably replied, “you couldn’t squat a roundie to save your life...” or something like that. Do you red robin folk converse like this? I bet you do.
Ah, now I see you. You’re not in this tree; you’re in the one next to it over here. Your chirping is like laughter from afar. Are you mocking me? Do you think I won’t nail you with a pellet from this gun of mine, little red robin? I could hit you from here, but just in case I’ll get a little closer. That’s better. Ten feet away. I’m right below you and could knock you off that maple branch with a rock if I wanted to. You don’t look like you’d even budge. You’re in my sights now, little birdie. Hold still awhile. All I have to do is squeeze this little trigger with my finger as I breathe out and... pop!
Got’cha. You’re not so tough now, are you? Look at you: flopping to the ground like a paper airplane gone south, twirling in circles. Plop--the same sound your giant white turd made as it landed on my hood, I bet. Ha! Now you’re twitching as I stand before you, with your little red robin wings flapping uselessly, your beak opening and closing as you try calling out for your friends. But guess what? They can’t hear you--you’re dying and you aren’t making any noise from that fish-out-of-water mouth of yours. Never again will you crap on my beautiful ride. Never again will you sing. Kind of makes me want to sing. When the little red robins go a plop, plop, ploppin’... How’s that for a tune? I’d chirp it for you if I had a beak. They’re not the words of the real song, of course, but suitable since you insisted on coving my car in gigantic white bird droppings each day for these last few weeks.
What’s this? Are these friends of yours coming to see you off: one, two, three of them in the branches above? Yeah, I shot your little friend! I popped him good--right between the... well, I got him in the neck at least. See, he’s barely even moving now. Sort of kicking his legs out gingerly. Oh, more of you have come to see. There are eight, nine... ten of you? And more of you are coming? This is what happens when you crap on my car, red robin folk! Crap on my car and I’ll shoot you down like this guy here! Hear me, little red robins! Listen up, pathetic birds, all twenty or thirty of you that are here now.
What the hell is going on? Do you normally flock like this... like the grey cloud of small birds I see coming from across the street? How many of you are there? Hundreds? Thousands? More... you all look the same to me. Ahh! Which one of you crapped on my shoulder? I’ll shoot you all down, every last one of you if I can! Oh, that’s it; no one craps on my head. Now it’s covering my hair, my face, my entire body. And now your flock is by my car--my beautiful, shiny black sports car. And there it goes; now it’s a blotchy white sports car, thank you very much.
And now I see that I am next; you are all coming for me it seems--countless numbers of you, cloud after cloud after cloud of swarming red robins. I never knew there were so many of you that liked to go a ploppin’. At least I got my revenge, you little crapfactories. You left me no choice but to try and run from the inescapable thundershower of white you are bringing me. Why did you go and crap on my car, little red robin?
