I realize that I am incriminating myself by telling this story, but my guilt will not allow me to hold it inside. Roughly an hour ago I fatally wounded an international symbol of peace. You see there are these huge hybrid dove-pigeons that have taken over Kearney during the past five years or so. I never saw these birds in Nebraska while I was growing up but now they are everywhere. They look like giant turtledoves with a black ring around their necks. They look so beautiful and graceful and then when they open their beaks they sound like a butt-raped crow. They sound fucking horrible and you will do anything to make them shut up, but that isn’t the reason why I popped fifteen caps into one of these graceful bird’s feathered ass. My reason was much more just.
I was limping home from class after having my ass kicked by a midterm exam. I was wearing my solid dark brown t-shirt that I so adore because this winter brown is the new black, and this shirt will be coveted by the highest followers of fashion that roam the Midwest all winter long. This brown t-shirt is amazing, the only way that this shirt could cause onlookers to focus on the contours of my pectoral muscles and deltoids more is if it were made of latex. I had my gray hoodie with me but had taken it off because I was feeling a little sweaty for some reason and I was only a block away from my apartment, so I was walking the last block with my hoodie in hand to cool off before I got home.
So I’m limping and holding my sore butt cheeks when I hear the loud fluttering of wings in the tree ahead of me. I see two of these glorious dove-pigeons fly from the tree, slowly flapping their wings with a grace that Shakespeare wouldn’t even be able to put into words and controlling their movements through the air with stealth like technology that could have only been invented by the author of all nature. These motherfuckers are some graceful fucking birds. I looked up at them and thought, “Don’t these mutt birds know how to migrate?” I mean, it’s barely thirty degrees outside and why in the hell are these birds still hanging around? So I’m looking up at these lovely misplaced angels as they fly overhead and as soon as my face was looking forward again I felt, and heard, a light plopping sound on the back of my neck and down my back. I froze in my tracks. I looked up and back as the two piece of shit flying rats faded into the cloudy sky as they distanced themselves from the enraged man that one of them had just shit on. I didn’t look over my shoulder to clarify whether I had just been pooped on or not, I knew. I knew that one of them had pooped on me. Birds are warm blooded but this bird’s poop felt cold on my neck. These dove-pigeons are spawned from the foul depths of Hell and are most likely reincarnated assholes that died of a heart attack while watching ESPN or were killed in a bar fight that they started. I got back to my apartment and saw one of these dove-pigeons standing in my yard. I gave it the stink-eye as I walked past it and entered my apartment.
As soon as I got inside I ran to the bathroom as fast as I could while navigating the extremely narrow stairs that lead down into my apartment, stumbling at the bottom. I then crawled into my bathroom and pulled my self up with the sink so I could gaze upon the damage that the winged beast had inflicted upon my one of a kind fashionable shirt. I turned and looked at the back of my shirt in the mirror and sure enough there was a long white streak of bird shit that went from my neck to my lower back. I removed the shirt at once and washed the filthy scat from it with water and an old washcloth. By the time that I was finished there wasn’t a spot of dung left on the shirt, but my rage was still burning like a furnace. I peeked out of the window in my second bedroom that I have converted into a very miniature gym and saw the dove-pigeon walking all cutesy through my yard. It was doing its little bird-walk where it bobs its head as it walks and I swear to God it even looked over at me and grinned a little. That was it. I ran to my refrigerator and found my .177 Caliber 15xt Model CO2 Semi-automatic hand cannon resting on top; it’s from the praised Daisy Powerline series. I placed a fresh CO2 cartridge into the handle and loaded the clip on the side of the barrel with fifteen BB’s, making a full metal jacket. The safety was off while I was doing all of this and I am thankful that I didn’t blow my foot or face off in the process. I marched back up the stairs with my shirt off and my fully loaded hog-leg in hand. I kicked my front door open, walked around the corner, made eye contact with the dove-pigeon, and pointed my iron at him. There was a moment of silence as I thought about the evil deed that I was about to put into action. The bird made eye contact with me and non verbally said, “Hi friend. I love you.” I looked back at the bird and non verbally said with my gaze, “Fuck life!” And then my trigger finger took over.
I unloaded all fifteen rounds on this bird in less than seven seconds. My finger was pretty itchy and the only thing that could satisfy that scratch was the sensation of a willing gun trigger that moved at the whim of my evil thoughts. My gat can shoot BB’s at a velocity of 500fps, that’s 500 feet-per-second to all of you suburbanites and sheeple that refuse to practice your second amendment rights by owning deadly firearms to protect your property and family. The bird didn’t die. He fluttered his wings violently and squawked his crow impressionist squawk as he tried to fly away. As soon as the bullets stopped flying he flew away into the nearby alley in a labored fashion. I saw that his feathers were blood soaked and that he was suffering. Had he not flown out into the public eye and stayed in my yard between the house and garage then I would have put him out of his misery. Perhaps it’s best that he got away and will die in front of his fellow piece of shit inbred dove-pigeon friends and family. He will coo in pain and tell the story of the semi-automatic clap-clap cannon that took him out with laser-like precision, and the son of a bitch that did it to him, me. His fellow birds will avoid my yard or better yet they will hatch some sort of plan to revenge their friends death. I will respond to their attempts with BB’s and a complete lack of compassion for their avian kind. Birds literally have birdbrains so how complex of a revenge plan can they come up with, am I right? After telling this story I realize that feel no guilt at all. I know that he was not the same bird that shit on my amazing brown t-shirt, but I had to make a point. Birds should not fuck with humans.