On my balcony, that is. Our lovely balcony in NoVa (that’s what peeps call it around here–y’all better respect!) has been home to at least two acts of wildlife. Nothing particularly interesting like that time I saw two squirrels humping in Cambridge and how the male squirrel (assuming it was male, since it was the humper) chased after the female who ran away from shame after seeing the gaggle of humans pointing and staring at it while it did its thang. Anyways, nothing interesting like that. Let’s take the first instance in March of this year, when a falcon decided to rip a pigeon to shreds on our balcony, leaving in its path of destruction the pigeon’s feathers, blood, and guts (or shit–the jury’s still out on the green substance). Below, I give you a picture aptly named, PREDATOR!
And yes, for those of you who are particularly perceptive, that is a box of Corona, which of course, officially makes us look like a bunch of college kids. Well, not so much. I suppose if we were in college, we couldn’t afford Corona and instead our balcony would be filled with several varieties of Boone’s (Strawberry Fields baby!), a couple boxes of wine (in a box, that is), and a mix of Natty Light and Keystone.
Now, you would think, with such a massacre occurring on our balcony, that pigeons would thereafter be permanently deterred from resting on our balcony. Although the hubby did the best job he could in removing the feathers (sorry to anyone down below) and eliminating the other substances on the balcony, he certainly was not successful in fully ridding our balcony of Mr. Pigeon’s blood and guts. Well, pigeons are f*cking stupid. Because this weekend, we found out that some more pigeons had straight up set up home and shop on our balcony. Here’s the hubby attempting to shoo the pigeons away:
Thank god our grill, pictured above, was still covered by the mover’s blankets. Otherwise, anyone coming to our next BBQ will be in for one hell of a surprise. Umm . . . yeah, that’s guacamole on your burger. Mmm . . .
So what’s the point of this story? Well, first, I hate birds. I don’t know why anyone could think birds are cute. They’re nasty. They shit all over the place (this picture does not in anyway impart how foul (or fowl!) it smelt out there). They stink. They have nasty ass claws. They don’t fetch. They don’t sit on your lap. They don’t even lick peanut butter off a spoon and lick their lips incessantly while drooling all over your feet as you laugh at their predicament. To me, if it’s a bird, it either belongs on someone else’s farm, or on my plate. Damn. I want some dim sum.