As a Canadian goose currently migrating over New England (I update with a MacBook at 20,000 feet), I’m subject to all sorts of discrimination. I know some of you are thinking: hold on a second, Nero, wasn’t your last post basically a prolonged attack on the culture of white geese, whom you seemed to despise categorically? Well, sure, but there are some forms of prejudice all geese need to present a united front against.
I’m talking, of course, about the human practice of jabbing/thrusting fingers into the area of a clothed buttcrack and squeezing whatever you get hold of. Or, as all the frat boys at the countless colleges we’ve recently passed through call it, “goosing.”
Could’ve just as easily been called “horsing.”
Sure, sometimes I have my face in another goose’s ass. But that’s how the flying V fucking works. I follow the goose ass in front of me, he follows the goose ass in front of him, all the way up to the goose that’s trying to understand how he ended up without a goose ass to follow. It doesn’t mean we’re trying to bite each other’s grundles.
Am I mad? Am I hissing in contempt over this bit of juvenalia? You’d like me to confirm that stereotype of a goose, wouldn’t you. But I’m too classy for that. You have fun with your restraining orders and bruised anuses. I’ll be up here in cumulus clouds, with my dignity.
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