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

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This Is Going To Sound Crazy

21 05 2008

But hear me out.  It’s all true.  A goose has been following me.

No, you shut up.  I’m not insane.  Well, of course the encyclopedia is going to say that, but look at the facts! What?  I don’t have encephalitis, or schizophrenia.  Epilepsy?  I don’t even know what that is, but you can bet I’m free of it.  Do I look like an invalid to you?  Once in a very, very long while, I’ll have a spell and faint, yes, but that’s just the Falling Sickness, my Uncle Gaius says.  I don’t expect you to understand—it’s part of the regal temperament.

If I were crazy, would I mind being called crazy this much?  Would I protest so much against that characterization, or so strenuously?

Think about this: I don’t live in a psychiatric asylum of any kind.  Show me a schizo who has his own luxury condo on 105th and Central Park West!  Fine, alright, that’s true: the chateau style building I live in was once an insane asylum, but that doesn’t mean anything.  Straitjackets were bound to get left behind in the conversion!  I’m not necessarily forced to wear them whenever I foam at the mouth!


When have you known a mentally unstable person to be holed up in a Gothic castle like this?

 

Please, just listen.  I was walking in Morningside Park, which I can do alone, without assistants, thank you very much, and without raving so loudly to myself that people take pains to get out of my way.  I was blending in just fine, not that I have to make a conscious effort to “blend.”  I was feeding whatever you normally feed the birds (it certainly wasn’t sharp metal can lids or gravel or anything like that), when I noticed a goose bullying the smaller sparrows and ducks around and snapping up every tasty morsel of the very edible stuff I was tossing out.  I shooed it away politely, because only a whacko would use something as drastic as firearm to scare it off.  

AND NOW IT WON’T LEAVE ME ALONE.  All he does is stare.  But it’s horrifying.  He’s at the window right now.  Oh, God, if only the doctors—er, tenant association—would let me have curtains and drawstrings.  It’s not as though I’d use them to hang myself, if you can even do that with curtains and drawstrings, which I never even wonder about.

I fear I’ve made a powerful enemy. 

—Caligula (Sane)





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





After-School Extra-Special

22 04 2008

Perfect. As soon as I get to Manhattan for the season, I find out that this douchebag red-tailed hawk named Hank thinks he owns the place and routinely demands “tribute” from any “pussy” birds roosting on the island. What am I, back in high school?

Hank forces mortified human family to witness evisceration of beloved pet cockatoo

Here’s what’s up, Hank: we all know that inside you’re some crybaby brat that had a messed up childhood and craves love. Probably your mom preened you till you were way too old for it. Whatever. Maybe if anyone gave a shit about your emotional health we would deal with that. But instead we’re just going to keep telling you where the weak squirrels are hiding so you can pick them off without all the wingwork. We’ll cave to your every bullying demand, denying you any catharsis whatsoever. No one will ever love you, and you’ll die alone, so fucking alone, wondering why no one stood up to you and turned your life around.  Sad, right?

No.  No one will be sad.





Your Goose Is Cooked

11 04 2008

Dear Ted Turner:

Hunting today on your 2.2 million acres was marvelous. Thanks for letting me start the season a week early; I so hate sharing stalking-spaces. You did get the extra $20,000, didn’t you? I Had my chef, Davus, cook up a kill and set the meal in front of the flock it belonged to, just to see the others’ dumb, horrified reaction. A perfect Friday.

Erotically yours,

Caligula