A Pigeonal Addendum

Before you read this, read this.

Really, I shouldn't be surprised at all. You outdid yourselves, again, for worse, again. What is with you guys? Huh?!

Here, let me spell it out for you:

Humans ≠ Pigeons
Humans ≠ Your Friends
Humans = Humans

Why is it then, pigeons, that you want to be man's best friend? The dog already holds this title. We'll give you a call when there's a vacancy. Until then, it is incumbent of your to KEEP YOUR DISTANCE. Ya heard? Distance is the operative word here.

Know what I saw the other day? Take a guess. No, go ahead. Give up?

People throwing rocks at pigeons. Rocks, pigeons. Rocks!

Can't you see what you've done? You're like the worst bird. Get it through your greasy little heads. The rocks were sizable ones - the size of an infant's fist - and they pummeled you. I mean, can't you guys fly? Last time I checked the roofs of cars or my own apartment window the answer was yes. (Hey, how do you guys manage to land a direct hit on my window anyway, which, of course, is perpendicular to your flight pattern? Is this like an in-flight, drop-and-release sort of thing where you pinch out a bomb 30 yards away and let gravity and momentum take care of the rest?)

Don't pull an ostrich or a penguin. FLY AWAY! But no, you pigeons took the beating happily, believing each next rock to be a cheeseburger. You guys oughta be ashamed of yourselves. What a pathetic display. Some of you dropped like bowling pins. Others slowly hobbled away from the beat-down. Those unstoned approached the stoning like a buffet line, only to be turned away wholeheartedly disappointed and very much stoned.

So just to see how dumb you are (and how much I could get away with) I threw my shoe at you. That's right, my frigging shoe. And guess what? BAM! It took one of you down. Sucka. Sparwled you out flat on the ground. Wings out and everything.

"Squawwwk! Oh, that wasn't a baguette?" No, shit-for-brains, it's not a baguette. It's my shoe. Eat shoe.

Somehow your pals were not phased and only came closer to check out my shoe.

"Maybe this shoe stepped on a baguette earlier in the day and is harboring tiny, little baguette morsels in its sole?!" Nice try. I almost had to say "excuse me" to retrieve the damn thing. I swear, ants are harder to squash.

And another thing: where do you get off trying to enter my hotel room? I didn't ask room service to send you up here. I didn't order no pigeon. But there you were on my balcony, walking through the sliding glass door and by the foot of my bed like some sort of freelancing maid. Maybe it was the horrified look on my face that compelled you to strut out, albeit at a casual pace. Be urgent about these things, please.

Once on the terrace you trapezed the bannister to the next room! Who invited you, pigeon?!