Ruffled Feathers

4 06 2008

Terrible news for Hillary Rodham Clinton today. That’s right: Big Bird has now tainted her candidacy in a way even Reverend Wright must be impressed with.

Just when we were moving past the offensive phrase “flipping the bird”

Tabloid readers will be familiar with this shot of the far-left fringe educationalist saluting the paparazzi after running over a boy crossing the street on foot because he donated his bike-fund money to HRC’s campaign. And my fans will remember me blowing the lid off of the fraternization between this piss-colored monster and Hillary herself back at the height of her cookie-baking powers.

It just keeps getting worse. I mean, Bert and Ernie’s gay marriage in Los Angeles this past week was a beautiful thing, and a long time coming. But no sooner had that holy ceremony taken place than a certain disgrace to the whole avian community was throwing a lavish, key-swapping swingers party on the beach to directly undermine the idea of homosexual monogamy itself.

And if the classical Greek-style nude statues that urinated Stoli vodka are any indication, this party was paid for by money embezzled from PBS. It’s safe to say that if Hillary doesn’t address the Big Bird connection soon, she’ll never clinch this nomination.

—Nero

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Sex And The Shitty

27 05 2008

What up bipeds.  I’m actually in a bit of a good mood today.  My mange has really cleared up, and I snagged a date as a result!  As you may or may not know, geese mate for life because monogamy is what God intended.  Ha!  Not really, it’s just easier.  Fuck, if I could organize a harem, you bet your naked baboon asses I would.  

Anyhoo, this total babe—let’s call her “Roscoe”—I picked her up at the dog run.  We were both taunting the mutts on the inside of the fence, honking, waggling our tail feathers just out of reach, and the next thing you know, we’re daring each other to take flying shits on traffic cops in Times Square.

Then Roscoe had the saucy idea of going to Manhattan’s “Sex Museum.”  I liked where her head was at but grumbled over the ticket price.  Still, I couldn’t very well ask my new lady friend to sneak in through an open second floor window or help me bully the front desk peon into a comp entrance as I normally do in these situations.  I was even more distraught when I realized what I’d shelled out cash for.

Um.

Roscoe wasn’t too shaken.  We ended up having a good laugh.  I’m just lucky I didn’t spring for the audio tour.

Also, normally I never preen and tell, but she did totally let me preen her.

—Nero





Memorialize This

22 05 2008

Memorial Day Weekend is more than just an opportunity for brain-dead and liquored up humans to cover the country with dirty blankets and discarded sporks as they chow down on bloody bovine and the less fortunate members of the avian community: it’s the beginning of three and a half months of said grotesque behavior.

I don’t get it, America—summer seems like prime time to sit in your homes, blast the A/C and look up celebrity sex videos on your new MacBooks.  Instead you’re inviting mosquitos into your ears and sweat into your asscracks.  If were up to me, of course, humans would never be allowed outside in the first place.  But I would think you’d get the hint that nature doesn’t want you running around playing frisbee golf in it. Or did you think knocking a squirrel out of a tree with a hard plastic disc was a fitting tribute to our fallen heroes?       

Celebrate those who gave their lives by          sacrificing the dignity of yours


 

 

 

—Nero

 





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)





Public Disservice

20 05 2008

I woke up in the Fortieth Precinct’s drunk tank again this morning, and you know what that means: community service.  Judge said I could do it in the form of a public service announcement regarding belligerent geese. Thought that was real funny.  Originally I figured I’d just copy-paste eHow.com’s rules for surviving a goose attack, but most were way off the mark, so I’m gonna do you a solid and bust some myths along the way.  Let’s get this over with. 

  •  Pay attention to the actions of the male goose when you enter his territory. If he sounds a warning, that is your signal to leave the area.
It’s funny how many people take that sound to be friendly.  Sometimes it is!  In fact, think of all goose body language as an invitation to inspect our carefully hidden nests.     
  • Show no fear. Geese are particularly attuned to body language and a show of fear may increase the intensity of the attack.
Unless you’re Sir Ian McKellen or another knighted actor, we’re going to see right through this ploy.  You’d better just lay down and submit by leaving your face, stomach and genitals exposed. 
  • Maintain eye contact. Geese have excellent vision and interpret loss of eye contact as an act of fear.
Also, you have nothing better to look at.
  • Stay calm. Don’t yell or try to hit the male goose. The female may join the attack and then you will be in real trouble.
No kidding.  Note the dual attack points on a victim of husband-and-wife serial peckers Tawny and Flyde:
  • Keep your body facing directly toward the goose. Never turn your back on an attacking goose.
This is actually wise.  A glimpse of your backside will invite the equivalent goose reaction of “Oh-No-You-Di’int!”
  • Walk slowly backwards if the goose hisses at you or spreads its wings. Use your peripheral vision to avoid tripping over obstacles.
Really?  When trying to escape a threatening bird, you should not fall on your ass like it’s a 1920s silent film?  Thanks, Internet!
  • Continue facing the goose and back slowly away at a 90-degree angle from the goose if he flies up at your face.
The time it takes to figure out the geometry of this move will cost you at least one eyeball.
  • Make your escape and exit the area through a gate if possible. Geese rarely fly over a fence.
WHO THE FUCK TOLD YOU THAT
—Nero

 





Laugh Out Loud, I Dare You

16 05 2008

I confess to having LOLcat fever, despite my mixed feelings on the phenomenon. On the one hand, these pictures usually play up a cat’s alleged cuteness, and as a member of the avian community (often exploited for “hunting practice” by sociopathic felines), I can’t condone any sympathetic portrayal of said monsters. Stand together, flying V!

At the same time, I love the intimation that cats can’t spell correctly and can only string the most retarded of sentences together. I guess that’s what keeps me looking for new pics pretty much any chance I get at my temp job—this perpetually sweaty guy on the other side of the office is the only one with a computer, and when he gets up, for any reason, everyone starts bickering over whose turn it is for Internet. Usually a lot of honking and biting on my part is enough to put the rest of the underpaid white-collar mob in their place.

Well today I snagged a 3-minute block when Sweats (we don’t know his real name) was in the can. And I saw something on MySpace I never would have expected.

Too soon.

I guess the honeymoon is over … doesn’t feel too good when the shoe is on the other foot. Or drumstick. Thanks, world wide web users, for the LOLgoose. One more pointless diversion I can no longer enjoy.

You just had to take it too far.