The Sweet Taste of Shit
Stand back, because this is the kind of thing that truly – truly – can only happen to me. You actually might want to sit down. Ready? I can wait, because blogworld.
Okay. By now you all know I’m sort of a lawn nazi (not capitalized). Over the recent weeks, I’ve fallen into a routine of getting off my bus on Friday, going full Spackler with my boots and cut-off camo pants with a ratty, holy tee shirt, and mowing the lawn. Of note, weather and my work schedule has created this pattern. This is irrelevant, but now you know.
Anyway, true to form, I came home, cracked a beer, and changed into my rest-of-the-family-embarrassment outfit. I fueled the mower, picked up random twigs and dead squirrels, and set out to mow. I’d like to mention that the lawn looks absolutely fabulous now. I’ve been re-seeding spots where moss has taken over. Gain: even yard. Gain: moss garden in the backyard – awesome. Gain: my landlord thinks I’m the shit. Loss – dirty knees. Loss: my landlord comes over for buddy/man time.
So with the lawn perfect and the walks swept, it was time for another beer. Or five. I wandered aimlessly around my landscaped kingdom and took in the sheer Rantiness of it all. I say that because like a hydrated dog, I’ve marked every corner of my yard. That makes it Ranty. Yes, it was dark when I marked it, mainly.
Getting to the point of this post, I paused to mount my rockstar, massive deck. It commands the back yard like the bridge of a starship and shit. At least I think that in the morning over coffee with a smoke, anyway. So I stood there, under my trees, trying to come up with a great new novel idea.
Nature, in all her karmic-bitch glory (anyone remember those margarine commercials besides me?), decided I needed some humbling. And that, my Rants Army, she did. She did it epic fashion.
The timing was exquisite. I looked down, saw the welcome hole of my Coors can, and started another 12-ounce curl. Just as I moved, some bird (probably a red-breasted Virginia shitbird) flew over and dropped a load. Yes, yes it did.
And yes, yes it went directly – fucking directly – into the widemouth opening of the beer can just inches from my face without sign or splatter. Only the fleeting white streak in my peripheral vision clued me into what happened. Lips engaged, tongue worked, throat finished the deal. Delayed reaction because alcohol.
Let me tell you, people: bird shit has no flavor whatsoever. That’s good news, because I wasn’t in the mood to hurl my previous six-pack (that I paid good money for) back up. I will say, however, that bird shit is pretty gritty. Kind of like getting a glob of really wet dirt in your mouth. Or much like a poorly-rinsed scallop, clam or mussel (but finer texture).
So that’s my Friday adventure, people. Only me. I had to share this because my Pentagon ass-plosion stories are getting old but this blog is in part devoted to all things shitty, poopy and scatological. Sort of.
P.S. – Have you tried Googling images for the search string, ‘vomit’? Awesome.