Despite my almost encyclopedic knowledge of Britney Spears* it comes as a shock to tell you, Pranksters, that my brain banks hold no information about birds. I take that back. This is what I know about birds:
They make noise.
Sometimes other animals eat them.
Orange cupcakes are the world’s most perfect food.
It is there that my knowledge of birds begins and ends.
So it came as a shock to me that one of my neighbors at the FBI Surveillance Van came up to me as I was devising a proper scheme to break the lock on the canoes sitting by the garbage cans and ascertaining how, exactly one might rob a liquor store and/or pawn shop while on a canoe.
Her: “The birds are attacking.”
Me: “AAAAH! Plausible deniability! I’ve! I didn’t rob anything yet! I PLEAD THE FIFTH!”
Her: (goggles at the crazy lady and takes several steps back)
Me: “uh, Ha-ha-ha. I meant, WHAT about birds?”
Her: “They’re attacking. I got hit yesterday.”
Me: (goggles, mouth open and catching river bugs)
Me: “But… but… birds are so cute and fluffy and now I want an Orange Cuppy-Cake.”
Her: “Every year, the complex sends out a warning when the birds begin to attack.”
Me: (stunned into blessed silence for once in my life)
Her: “Yeah. Sometimes a hat works. I used an umbrella last year.”
Me: (still sitting there with my mouth open)
Her: “So be careful! And get a hat!”
Me: “Thanks for the warning!”
She walked away, eying the trees suspiciously.
I dismissed her as being “crazy,” (which, as someone who’d been plotting to rob a liquor store using a canoe, is not exactly appropriate) and went about my day.
The following afternoon, I stepped outside, my mind full of such things as “I wonder if Bill Gates knows my orthodontist” and “do bands really set out to become “light rock” or is that just one of those unfortunate labels that gets stuck on bands who happen to use a rocking sax?” when, from out of nowhere, there was a loud buzzing noise and suddenly, my hair, which had been happily attached to my head, was now being pulled. Hard.
Whipping around, I noticed that there was a bird there, his mouth shaped into a sadistic smile. I whipped him the middle finger before yelping like a little bitch, figuring that flipping a bird the bird would have some sort of effect.
It did not.
Before the week was out, I’d been dive-bombed more times than my fingers could count and I’d begun to develop a nice bald spot where my formerly hair had once been. I looked like the before picture in one of those baldness infomercials.
Even worse than female baldness was the fact that I’d turned into this raving lunatic every time I ventured outside. Scanning the sky for Attack Birds I tripped on my own feet so many times that my knees turned black and blue and my palms had crisscrossed scars. Furtively, I’d scan the sky, flipping off rogue birds intent upon attacking my new bald spot when I realized that my neighbors were probably craning their necks to examine me for the marks left by the straight jacket.
I had to develop a new strategy.
I considered umbrellas, but decided that walking around with an umbrella during a perfect summer day would only further my neighbors conviction that I belonged not in the FBI Surveillance Van, but in yee old Funny Farm.
I was left with one option. One kicky option.
Kicky motherfucking hats.
And you know what, Pranksters? It WORKED. So what if I look like a tool in cat-hair encrusted sweatpants, a ripped tank top and a fedora? So what if I wore a poker visor out in public?
AT LEAST I WASN’T GETTING BALDER.
Soon, Pranksters, I’ll be the AFTER picture in that infomercial.
It’s only a shame Billy Fucking Mays won’t be there to jubilantly hawk my new hair.
*my parents are SO proud.