Loose Dead Grass Season has now given way to Horny Bird Season, which is sometimes known as Suicidal Bird Season for the instances when one horny bird is chasing away another horny bird or is chasing after a less horny bird and they fly right in front of my truck and I have to slam on my brakes so they don’t become hood ornaments. Horny birds make bad decisions. Just ask their parents. Horny birds also have major attitude problems. Just ask me.
The other day I was mad-dogged by a juvenile delinquent robin. While he was staring at me, he raised his talons, pointed them at his eyes and then back at me. As the trees in my area were gentrified from the low-class grey sparrows and doves to the pretty red robins, I didn’t see this coming. Now I have to watch my back when I go outside, but such is life in the suburban junglehood.
Last night I couldn’t sleep (probably because of angry birds, and I don’t mean the game) and discovered that what I thought was tinnitus all these years is actually Mariah Carey living in my head and shrieking in a pitch so high that the only people who can hear it are me and dogs. And yes, dogs are people, too. So are dolphins. That may be Mariah talking. But dogs are definitely people.
I know it’s her because if I can’t sleep, neither can she and last night I heard her order pizza.
“Thank you for calling Pizza Hut, may I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like to order a large pepperoni and rose petal pizza.”
“Ok, may I get your name and address?”
“Mariah, Greg’s head, and make them pink.”
“Ok, would you like any bread sticks with that?”
“Yes, with glitter and a unicorn.”
When the delivery guy showed up, he couldn’t fit the box through my ear so Mariah just reached out, grabbed the pizza and pulled it in. Or maybe I dreamed it. But I wasn’t hungry all day. AND SHE’S STILL SHRIEKING!
Why couldn’t it have been kd lang?