Why Couldn’t It Be A Sex Tape

24 06 2008

Oh, fuck me. This is just my luck. You live your whole life, spend years in flight academy, do the goddamn migrations, eat the moldy bread, preen, kill countless hours drifting on the water, stand around in the rain, flee from cartoonish and badly-camouflaged hunters, molt, go everywhere in a giant V. You do everything expected of a goose.

Maybe then you go through a messy divorce. That’s all too common, man, nobody’s gonna knock you for that. Maybe the rent shot sky high on the one side of the lake you could still afford. Not your fault, buddy. And maybe you finally have no choice but to sleep in someone’s boat for a few nights. Hell, nobody’s used it in months, what’s the big deal?

Then, say you get up in the morning to piss and came back to find some good ol’ boy and his ugly mutt trying to make off with your improvised shelter, the one thing you have left in this world. At a certain point a bird has to spread his wings and say: “Nuh-uh. Not today. Not my crappy makeshift nest.”

Well, what the fuck was he doing with a camera, anyway? “Doggone goose”—wish I’d pecked his bastard amateur filmmaker’s eyes out.

The YouTube comments? “You should have broke its neck.” “I would have ate that goose.” No, you wouldn’t have, you feckin Capri Sun-drinking web-rat virgins. You’d be dead if you tried that. I took these rednecks to school, and that joker would be at the bottom of that lake with his pooch for grabbing me by the neck if I hadn’t been so hungover. Jesus. A guy tries to preserve his dignity and the wired community takes a steaming dump on him. Real classy, Internet.

—Nero

Advertisements




Firewater Fowl

2 05 2008

This time I really mean it. It’s a new month, new leaf, new lease on life. This goose is going sober. I know, I know, I said I’d stop drinking New Year’s Day, as a resolution, and then again on February 15th, after all the chocolate liqueur, and I definitely pledged some kinda sobriety after this little post-St. Patrick’s Day incident—

That’s me all the way to the left. We’re not dead, just extremely hungover. Damn if I remember where we drunkenly decided to fly—I was hanging out with some extreme enablers, as you can see—but these good old boys in the camo had the decency to humiliate rather than shoot us where we lay. The guy in the middle put the pic up on his MySpace.

And I’m thankful: it’s something I can keep as incentive to get back on the wagon. Which I’ll do. Right after Memorial Day Weekend. Or the Fourth of July.

Uh, after BBQ season.

—Nero