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A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Just About Right (Or: Yay! More Birdshit, Please!)

Once, a long time ago, I wrote a personal essay about my father. It began this way:

"Life's different for kids whose fathers have killed people. I don't know exactly how-- it just is."

I think this is true for the kids of gangbangers, as well as for kids whose fathers participated in more sanctioned, though I'm sure just as rabid, killing as part of the Israeli Army. Though I wrote that sentence a long time ago, I still think it's true today.

Here's another sentence that's kind of like that first one:

Life's different for people who've had birds shit in their eye.

Again, I speak from experience.

On Sunday, I was standing outside moving scenery into the ill-fated U-Haul, and I was chatting away with this volunteer about the logistics of loading the Darling family's fireplace into the truck when my left eye went all warm all of a sudden and I couldn't see out of it-- but I could still see out of the right one just fine.

"That's funny," I can remember thinking to myself, "I can't wink."

Then I looked, through my right eye, of course, down at my shirt and it not featured about a three-and-a-half-inch-long stain-- deep blueish-purple in hue.

"What happened?" the volunteer asked me.

"Well," I said, "either God is having some kind of Polaner All-Fruit party up there or some motherfucking bird just shat all over my face."

Indeed, in truth-- nay-- i'faith, I fear it was the latter.

I'm different now.

I no longer look at birds the same way as I used to-- in that innocuous, half-caring way that most people do. "Oh, was that a finch?" we blithely say to each other as we drive past, not really giving a damn if it was or if it wasn't.

They're not finches or bluejays or cardinals anymore. Now, they're all Public Enemy #1. And they're all loaded.

The people I was with on Sunday all had a rollicking laugh at my expense, and everyone to whom I've told this little yarn has had the same response:

"It's good luck!"

Yes. Good luck. And may the same good luck visit you, too, friend-- preferably when you're smiling for a picture or about to kiss your mistress on the pussy. I think it's funny when people remark on what good luck terrible things are. Like rain when you're about to get married in an outdoor ceremony during a monsoon with no back-up venue. I wonder if getting shot in the face with a 12-guage is good luck. Perhaps getting branded in the chest with a red-hot poker is also equally fortuitous. I wouldn't know. But, one day, I probably will.

Lucky me.

As I stood there, frozen momentarily, as I suspect most people who've just had their eye shat into probably are, I thought to myself, "Well, this is just about right." I say that because I'm the kind of person who has, heretofore, walked around his entire life believing and billing himself to be the exact kind of person into whose eye a bird would be likely to shit. However, the compelling fact remained that, prior to Sunday evening, that particular incident had not yet occured. Sure, I've broken dishware in the presence of a girl I was trying to impress/seduce: and that felt about right, too. Sure, I've urinated all over my hands in the bathroom while trying to psyche myself up for meeting my first girlfriend's parents-- and that felt just about right, too. I have also fallen down steps and inexplicably blurted out sexual things in pubic (see?) and been caught staring at cleavage by said cleavage's responsible party and I've also sent emails with nasty, snarky things about people directly to them instead of to the person with whom I was supposed to-- and that's all felt just about right, too. But something was always missing from this persona I've created for myself, the image of the hapless schlep to whom inordinately ridiculous, funny, disgusting, unfortunate things happen-- just... because.... it would be just about right for those things to happen, you know, to him.

But now, loves: a bird has shat its way through my left eyeglass lens, into my eye and down my shirt.

And that feels just about right.


  1. Oh! I'm sorry that this happened, but thanks for the laugh... I would have thought such a thing could only happen to me!

  2. THAT was the comedic lift I needed this afternoon. Well written :)

  3. OMFuckingGOD!!! I haven't been on here in a few days, been sick and it appears my reoccuring laryngitis has reappeared.

    But thank you for killing me with laughter, making sure all my breathable pathways enjoyed this laughter... I don't know where you come up with this shit... how you can put it onto blogger so eloquently and let everyone who reads it laugh out loud in a non pretend instant messaging way.

    While I was pissing myself and laughing... I started to read your happenings and my husband turns to me and says 'is this the volvo guy?' which makes me laugh further because you poor schlep you have your own voice, I no longer feel sorry for you about the bird shitting in your retina.

    But thanks for the laugh!

  4. oh... my. I think I would have to seek counseling for PTSD if a bird ever shat in my eye. I'm all cringey just thinking about it. *shudder*


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