Well, August has arrived and with it comes the fruition or denial of my promise. I told myself repeatedly during my summer sabbatical from writing that once August came around I would get back at it, attacking what I claim as one of my “passions” with gusto worthy of such distinction. So here we go into the adventure once more. Let us embark on Season II of Sundays in the Dark—which, interestingly enough, is commencing on a very bright Thursday afternoon: I’ll be frank, I have plans Sunday evening . . . deal with it.
Let me begin our re-acquaintance—and if you want to deem it a ‘courtship’ all the better—with a summary of myself on this day. I have grown. If you haven’t seen me in a given amount of time (that is all of you . . . try to keep up) I have really shot up and out. I took some supplements I found in a dank Men’s Room at a Michigan service station named “Jess’s”, and I’ll tell you, it has been an intense war waged between me and my physical boundaries. The two most common words I have heard uttered in my direction are “Immense” and “Gerth”. And I concur.
It is strange being gargantuan. Here I am, plunged into a world of Lilliputians, and after years of being ‘sleek’ and ‘slender’ I find myself much like a de-whiskered feline. Have you ever cut the whiskers from a cat’s face? You see, the purpose of the whiskers is to allow the cat foreknowledge of whether or not the rest of it will fit through a given space. Without the facial measurers the furball will wedge itself into all manner of unmanageable positions the likes of which only butter and determination serve as liberators. And now this rapid transition has fated me thusly: wedged in doorways, lodged between bookshelves at the library, and jam-packed into my stadium seat at the local theater.
And despite my newly found gravitational fortitude my very mindset is quite moveable and, at present, absolutely shaken. As a sprite, I was prone to dash from trouble, and sneer from a safe distance. Now, when I try to dart, I topple. I am forced to stand tall—easily enough managed physically—and fight—a much more difficult feat. My only “move” is jiggling, ineffective at best. Even my towering height is a disadvantage as you little folk zip about—a memory now so fond of days long forgotten—relentlessly striking areas where I have no arms to protect. What good is cowering and covering my face in this realm of merciless body shots?
This chronic bigness has shrunk me. I am isolated and perplexed, wondering and wandering. I hope to regain my old form, the mannerisms, deftness, and accompanying spirit, but I fear the comfort within my own self is gone; a stranger who struck off into the void and got lost, leaving only memories in the form of breadcrumbs and miniature footprints.
I miss the ease of that persona. His life was simple, an unknowing existence of selfish convenience: what a way to go. But this little-big me is frightful and uncertain, fumbling and clumsy, yet chock-full of potential and adventure and the chance for the self within to catch-up with the expansive body. Maybe the gerth life truly is the life for me . . . God knows.
13 August 2009
Season II
Dear Readers,
Welcome those old and new to the ramblings of "Sundays In the Dark". So far, I am aware of a readership that stretches from Missouri to Africa, Tennessee to Michigan, Texas to somewhere far from Texas . . . somewhere nice (I have one of these posts coming about a recent trip to the Lonestar State and one title I am working with is "Is it me or did Mexico vomit?" . . .). And now we have no more readers from Texas, but that is okay, we will be just fine without them.
I have never really shared the purpose of this blog with anyone so I think this an apt time to do this.
1) I need an outlet or I might turn into a lunatic.
2) Hopefully it gets people reading . . . nearly always a good thing.
3) If it makes you chuckle, well, an even better thing.
4) Some pieces might even have some insights and truths about life hidden within . . . like pearls in the ocean. Pluck these out and if nothing else do what one does with pearls . . . share them with your grandmother, dead or alive (wait, that phrase "dead or alive" is used after bounties not grandmothers . . . I need an editor . . . and now we have no beloved grandchildren, but that is okay, we will be just fine without them).
There may be some more, but I am tired and well past my word count for today (it is the same as my daily push-up count: 4) and so I hope you all are well and if you aren't, well, how's your perspective doing?
Happy Sunday and Happy Reading.
Matt
Welcome those old and new to the ramblings of "Sundays In the Dark". So far, I am aware of a readership that stretches from Missouri to Africa, Tennessee to Michigan, Texas to somewhere far from Texas . . . somewhere nice (I have one of these posts coming about a recent trip to the Lonestar State and one title I am working with is "Is it me or did Mexico vomit?" . . .). And now we have no more readers from Texas, but that is okay, we will be just fine without them.
I have never really shared the purpose of this blog with anyone so I think this an apt time to do this.
1) I need an outlet or I might turn into a lunatic.
2) Hopefully it gets people reading . . . nearly always a good thing.
3) If it makes you chuckle, well, an even better thing.
4) Some pieces might even have some insights and truths about life hidden within . . . like pearls in the ocean. Pluck these out and if nothing else do what one does with pearls . . . share them with your grandmother, dead or alive (wait, that phrase "dead or alive" is used after bounties not grandmothers . . . I need an editor . . . and now we have no beloved grandchildren, but that is okay, we will be just fine without them).
There may be some more, but I am tired and well past my word count for today (it is the same as my daily push-up count: 4) and so I hope you all are well and if you aren't, well, how's your perspective doing?
Happy Sunday and Happy Reading.
Matt
01 February 2009
A Note (before recess)
SuperThoughts will be the only post this evening thanks in part to The Office. The hour-long spectacle cut my writing time, well, an hour short tonight, but it was well worth it: what an episode, eh?
But I did want to take a moment and thank my loyal readers. The two of you have meant so much to me.
Seriously, though, I do appreciate anyone who reads these posts, and I hope that occasionally these digressive arrangements muster a smirk (I am not nearly conceited enough to think they warrant much more, but if a laugh is occasionally loosed, well, all the better . . .)
I would especially like to note that one reader, a fellow I attended high school with, recently got a hold of me with a request for a story. This request will be released in a few weeks to coincide with baseball spring training, as it is a tale about a notorious ballplayer.
I welcome his suggestion and look forward to the fine-tuning of that piece, and likewise would appreciate any other feedback regarding future posts. Now I know most of you could care less what you read, but in the same manner that you might request a song or dish at a restaurant I am offering the same luxury: a chance to have someone else report back on a subject of your choosing. Free reporting and writing to any subject you choose . . . what a deal. Please realize that any journalistic merits regarding truth will not be upheld, and I will not complete high school or college writing assignments (without a fee . . . kidding . . . but seriously).
And that is it for this week. Hope you have a good one, and again, thanks.
Happy reading . . .
But I did want to take a moment and thank my loyal readers. The two of you have meant so much to me.
Seriously, though, I do appreciate anyone who reads these posts, and I hope that occasionally these digressive arrangements muster a smirk (I am not nearly conceited enough to think they warrant much more, but if a laugh is occasionally loosed, well, all the better . . .)
I would especially like to note that one reader, a fellow I attended high school with, recently got a hold of me with a request for a story. This request will be released in a few weeks to coincide with baseball spring training, as it is a tale about a notorious ballplayer.
I welcome his suggestion and look forward to the fine-tuning of that piece, and likewise would appreciate any other feedback regarding future posts. Now I know most of you could care less what you read, but in the same manner that you might request a song or dish at a restaurant I am offering the same luxury: a chance to have someone else report back on a subject of your choosing. Free reporting and writing to any subject you choose . . . what a deal. Please realize that any journalistic merits regarding truth will not be upheld, and I will not complete high school or college writing assignments (without a fee . . . kidding . . . but seriously).
And that is it for this week. Hope you have a good one, and again, thanks.
Happy reading . . .
SuperThoughts
Well, the game is over, and now, while they hand out awards and before The Office, I am going to, in no specific manner, jot some of my impressions from the big night.
Before even a single snap, I had to laugh at the world in which we live. The NFL wanted to really bring out its PLAY 60 initiative, one whose aim is to encourage young people toward 60 minutes of physical activity per day. Ironic. They chose to have several reminders of this lofty* endeavor and even had a youthful representative take out the game ball before the opening kick. This all taking place on a day which pregame begins at 3 pm, the game itself lasts a hearty four hours, and one is forbidden from diverting his eyes even during the commercials for fear of missing something (and this is valid: if I would have missed that Koala getting punched I would have been upset). I have been sitting on the couch for a quarter of a full earthly day, and I have an hour or so to go thanks to The Office’s special episode. But sure kids go play. If you get hurt just whimper quietly and we can nip over to the ER just as soon as the programming is over or maybe first thing in the morning. Okay? Thankfully I have no children for which to be a horrid example. And it is sort of a Catch-22 because to have any little ones I will have to get off the couch . . . a tall order. Perhaps, I could start small, say, 60 minutes a day.
Next point: 3D Glasses. Do many people keep these just lying about? What about folks at large gatherings, are there enough for everyone? They told me to get mine ready, gave me like six seconds, and then plunged into a worthless 3 minutes of visual commercial splendor, all shapes and colors, and I sat there void an entire demension and suitably irate. So tomorrow I am buying a pair of 3D glasses—nay goggles—and I am going to have them available at all times: just in case. I’ll squeeze that into my 60 minutes just after meeting and marrying a woman and prior to our procreation. No problem.
On to the next observation: Was that first Doritos commercial made in a tech savvy employees basement and then vaulted until its first playing tonight? In case you were at the fridge, it involved an annoying guy with a snow globe pretending the snow globe is a Magic 8 Ball: yeah, already stupid, right? Well, the annoying guy shows his annoying friend and then chucks the thing through a vending machine that only contains Doritos chips (nice realism, guys!) Then annoying guy B (sorry but another adjective really won’t do) throws said globe—which is wondrously back in one piece after its encounter with the vending machine—at his boss’s crouch. Worst add ever simply because it tried so hard and failed so miserably. I now officially hate Doritos and will not eat a single chip of that name for at least XLIII days (or a week, whichever comes first).
And we must talk about BRUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCE!!!! As much as the black guy from the E Street Band tried to dress like Janet Jackson a few years ago—I mean it was the precise get-up—no boobs were shown in the making of this halftime show. But a few other things did stand out or slide across the stage on knees. Did anyone else catch this priceless moment? After belting, “Tramps like us, Baby, we were born to RUN . . .” The Boss slid toward the wing of the stage and provided a more forcible hit than any the first half had seen. He obviously over slid, maybe it was Superbowl adrenaline or steroids or something, but I guarantee the cameraman is worse for wear on Monday morning. It didn’t show the afflicted party, but a close-up of Bruce’s face showed a wry grin as if to say: “Boy, did I over slide. HA, sorry, Man!” The only guy who almost had a worse fate was the stagehand responsible for catching the guitar Springsteen let fly his way upon taking the stage. The poor guy, terror in his face, wrestled the axe into control, but it was a near fumble and awkward as catching a greased pig in the snow.
So that was awesome, and just when the Band was really rocking the house The Boss, his band mate, Steve, and The Ref had perhaps the corniest moment since Cat Stevens sang “Peace Train” with a calico kitten nestled in his Capri panted lap. Two legendary musicians talking nonsense about ‘extra time’, and just when the viewer is thinking: Hey, this conversation seems pretty phony . . . a goofy guy in officiating garb spazzes onto the stage and throws a flag for delay of game. At this point I threw a white flag, noting that I will hopefully visit Bruce during one of his four hour jam-fests and steer clear of him in short spurts.
My biggest disappointment in the game was not Kurt Warner’s loss or his oldest daughter’s wedding ring, but the ref that got nailed in the first half. It was the back judge, I think, the one who later called the safety on Pittsburgh. Anyway, he got dealt with at one point, the best part of any game, and he jolted right back up after the briefest of visits with the turf. It was nearly respectable and totally unfunny. Typically the ref has a way of comically rolling or losing flags and his hat or stumbling back to his feet like one coming up from a too-long spell underwater. Nope, this guy just bounced right back up like Keanu Reeves taking a punch in The Matrix.
And, of course, they brought out “Sully” and his flight crew before the game; the birds were watching (if you are lost on this visit an earlier post, or let me save you some time: Don't).
It was a spectacle. It was the Superbowl. And now, finally, I can visit the restroom. I will set my timer and add the duration spent there to my daily off-couch allotment.
*(by lofty I intend lackluster and slothful)
Before even a single snap, I had to laugh at the world in which we live. The NFL wanted to really bring out its PLAY 60 initiative, one whose aim is to encourage young people toward 60 minutes of physical activity per day. Ironic. They chose to have several reminders of this lofty* endeavor and even had a youthful representative take out the game ball before the opening kick. This all taking place on a day which pregame begins at 3 pm, the game itself lasts a hearty four hours, and one is forbidden from diverting his eyes even during the commercials for fear of missing something (and this is valid: if I would have missed that Koala getting punched I would have been upset). I have been sitting on the couch for a quarter of a full earthly day, and I have an hour or so to go thanks to The Office’s special episode. But sure kids go play. If you get hurt just whimper quietly and we can nip over to the ER just as soon as the programming is over or maybe first thing in the morning. Okay? Thankfully I have no children for which to be a horrid example. And it is sort of a Catch-22 because to have any little ones I will have to get off the couch . . . a tall order. Perhaps, I could start small, say, 60 minutes a day.
Next point: 3D Glasses. Do many people keep these just lying about? What about folks at large gatherings, are there enough for everyone? They told me to get mine ready, gave me like six seconds, and then plunged into a worthless 3 minutes of visual commercial splendor, all shapes and colors, and I sat there void an entire demension and suitably irate. So tomorrow I am buying a pair of 3D glasses—nay goggles—and I am going to have them available at all times: just in case. I’ll squeeze that into my 60 minutes just after meeting and marrying a woman and prior to our procreation. No problem.
On to the next observation: Was that first Doritos commercial made in a tech savvy employees basement and then vaulted until its first playing tonight? In case you were at the fridge, it involved an annoying guy with a snow globe pretending the snow globe is a Magic 8 Ball: yeah, already stupid, right? Well, the annoying guy shows his annoying friend and then chucks the thing through a vending machine that only contains Doritos chips (nice realism, guys!) Then annoying guy B (sorry but another adjective really won’t do) throws said globe—which is wondrously back in one piece after its encounter with the vending machine—at his boss’s crouch. Worst add ever simply because it tried so hard and failed so miserably. I now officially hate Doritos and will not eat a single chip of that name for at least XLIII days (or a week, whichever comes first).
And we must talk about BRUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCE!!!! As much as the black guy from the E Street Band tried to dress like Janet Jackson a few years ago—I mean it was the precise get-up—no boobs were shown in the making of this halftime show. But a few other things did stand out or slide across the stage on knees. Did anyone else catch this priceless moment? After belting, “Tramps like us, Baby, we were born to RUN . . .” The Boss slid toward the wing of the stage and provided a more forcible hit than any the first half had seen. He obviously over slid, maybe it was Superbowl adrenaline or steroids or something, but I guarantee the cameraman is worse for wear on Monday morning. It didn’t show the afflicted party, but a close-up of Bruce’s face showed a wry grin as if to say: “Boy, did I over slide. HA, sorry, Man!” The only guy who almost had a worse fate was the stagehand responsible for catching the guitar Springsteen let fly his way upon taking the stage. The poor guy, terror in his face, wrestled the axe into control, but it was a near fumble and awkward as catching a greased pig in the snow.
So that was awesome, and just when the Band was really rocking the house The Boss, his band mate, Steve, and The Ref had perhaps the corniest moment since Cat Stevens sang “Peace Train” with a calico kitten nestled in his Capri panted lap. Two legendary musicians talking nonsense about ‘extra time’, and just when the viewer is thinking: Hey, this conversation seems pretty phony . . . a goofy guy in officiating garb spazzes onto the stage and throws a flag for delay of game. At this point I threw a white flag, noting that I will hopefully visit Bruce during one of his four hour jam-fests and steer clear of him in short spurts.
My biggest disappointment in the game was not Kurt Warner’s loss or his oldest daughter’s wedding ring, but the ref that got nailed in the first half. It was the back judge, I think, the one who later called the safety on Pittsburgh. Anyway, he got dealt with at one point, the best part of any game, and he jolted right back up after the briefest of visits with the turf. It was nearly respectable and totally unfunny. Typically the ref has a way of comically rolling or losing flags and his hat or stumbling back to his feet like one coming up from a too-long spell underwater. Nope, this guy just bounced right back up like Keanu Reeves taking a punch in The Matrix.
And, of course, they brought out “Sully” and his flight crew before the game; the birds were watching (if you are lost on this visit an earlier post, or let me save you some time: Don't).
It was a spectacle. It was the Superbowl. And now, finally, I can visit the restroom. I will set my timer and add the duration spent there to my daily off-couch allotment.
*(by lofty I intend lackluster and slothful)
18 January 2009
For the Birds
I am saddened by our society. It disappoints me, as all societies let down those who are part of them and not complete dullards; now, I am not claiming intellect here, just not complete ignorance.
Honestly, though, with all the greed and malice slinking about, how can we really look around with hope, with any knowledge of truth? And each week it all worsens, the whole mess, the outrageous spectacle, and this week we have once more plummeted.
We have started another war we need no part of; one whose stakes are too lofty. And as we pile up or propaganda and endoctrinate the simple-minded with these lies, our enemy is mobilizing. They will come in force. They will come from the sky. They will come in the springtime.
Obviously, most of you know exactly of what I am speaking, and those of you who don't likely belong to the lovely confederacy of dullards I alluded to earlier. You march along unaware, well your time is near, and this will hopefully open your eyes; believe me, if I do not, they will.
This weekend a plane crashed and the United States of America openly blamed the birds. I don't know if it was specifically pigeons, seagulls, or albatross who were cooked by the biased media, but the lack of specifics will likely only serve to further the numbers of the bird coalition that will rise up and then swoop down against us.
The 'bird strike' as it was deemed was no such thing. And I am aware that I am treading some pretty dangerous ground and perhaps will not be a free man much longer for it, but I must make my stand before my wings are clipped.
The group of birds were merely cruising south for a bit of respite from the frigid northeastern climate. The poor fellows and gentlefowls were minding their own business and flying as a peaceable group, as is the norm with the avian kind. They had flapped out of Canada and were on an all nighter to South Carolina. There they were hoping to catch the red eye, along with some bread crumbs, en route to Cancun.
One of the dearest of the flock, a youthful, and naturally somewhat careless, member, swooped graciously away from the congregation: he had to relieve his morning niblets and didn't want to splatter on any of his fellow flyers. He was looking forward to lightening his load but never got to rejoin his mates in a leaner state. Only a few feathers were left as he was picked off by a heinous 85,000 lb bullet shot by an American airline. Not a tear was shed by this lone bird's comrades because it all happened so quickly and at a lower altitude; they didn't know what happened to their now incenerated friend. But they do now; we told them.
And not only did we go public about the massacre, but we disgraced the entire winged community (I wouldn't be surprised if dragons come out of hiding after this debacle). We blame the bird for our misfortune--which took no human life. Then we audaciously make a hero of the man who piloted the plane to safety. And this, perhaps, would be fine--give Captain "Sully" his due--if we would go ahead and honor the life we took. How about a memorial for our young friend, who now looked like he has spent a decade in the deep fryers of Hell. If we had properly honored him and apologized to birds everywhere for our intrusion into their domain and what it has caused, then all would have been fine; they are a congenial enough sort.
They have ignored for years the hunting we do. They have merely shrugged when we laughingly explode their pigeons with rice after our wedding ceremonies. They tolerate Popeye's and the others. But they will not stoop for this.
Have you seen Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds"? He is the next Nostradamus--except his predictions are not blanketed on every even year and every-other odd year and vague enough to be true or maybe next time or maybe he meant tomorrow . . . yeah, tomorrow. No, Mr. Hitchcock was very clear: the birds will attack. They will be merciless. They will peck to kill. They will beak at our forlorn society with terrifying fervor.
But even old Al's predictions were tame compared with what might ensue when the weather warms. The little birds will come first--sparrows and hummingbirds and the like--and they will test us out. They will spy and examine our defenses. And then the crows and vultures and hawks will form not a flying "V", but intricate formations that spell "DIE" and "RESPECT THE BIRD." Do you know how many birds it will take to shadow your parks, your home, your church with "RETRIBUTION HUMANS!" Millions. And, I hear, they are developing a 'stealth' bird for any necessary spaces. The penguins will come by sea and nothing Morgan Freeman can say will halt their malice. Many I have talked to think the eagles will join America. They are fools. The eagles are so tired of being the laughing stock of the avian community: "Your their pets, squawk, squaw," the other birds taunt them. The eagles want retribution. The ostriches will not come. Their heads are in the sand and not the clouds--the Switzerland of the bird community. But the rest will be here.
Ready yourselves. If our government will not act and our media will not try to remedy our peril, then it is every man for himself. Remember the bird flu? This will be like the bird cancer. I am constructing a bird costume for myself and working on my Birdish (it is a complex language but can be mastered with dilligence). Everyone will have different schemes but this is mine: blend in, move south during the winter, and back north in the summer. I will behave like a squawking retired person who is covered in feathers and donning rubber beak. The flying part will be more difficult but if a guy named 'Sully' and a bunch of stupid birds can do it, how hard can it be?
Honestly, though, with all the greed and malice slinking about, how can we really look around with hope, with any knowledge of truth? And each week it all worsens, the whole mess, the outrageous spectacle, and this week we have once more plummeted.
We have started another war we need no part of; one whose stakes are too lofty. And as we pile up or propaganda and endoctrinate the simple-minded with these lies, our enemy is mobilizing. They will come in force. They will come from the sky. They will come in the springtime.
Obviously, most of you know exactly of what I am speaking, and those of you who don't likely belong to the lovely confederacy of dullards I alluded to earlier. You march along unaware, well your time is near, and this will hopefully open your eyes; believe me, if I do not, they will.
This weekend a plane crashed and the United States of America openly blamed the birds. I don't know if it was specifically pigeons, seagulls, or albatross who were cooked by the biased media, but the lack of specifics will likely only serve to further the numbers of the bird coalition that will rise up and then swoop down against us.
The 'bird strike' as it was deemed was no such thing. And I am aware that I am treading some pretty dangerous ground and perhaps will not be a free man much longer for it, but I must make my stand before my wings are clipped.
The group of birds were merely cruising south for a bit of respite from the frigid northeastern climate. The poor fellows and gentlefowls were minding their own business and flying as a peaceable group, as is the norm with the avian kind. They had flapped out of Canada and were on an all nighter to South Carolina. There they were hoping to catch the red eye, along with some bread crumbs, en route to Cancun.
One of the dearest of the flock, a youthful, and naturally somewhat careless, member, swooped graciously away from the congregation: he had to relieve his morning niblets and didn't want to splatter on any of his fellow flyers. He was looking forward to lightening his load but never got to rejoin his mates in a leaner state. Only a few feathers were left as he was picked off by a heinous 85,000 lb bullet shot by an American airline. Not a tear was shed by this lone bird's comrades because it all happened so quickly and at a lower altitude; they didn't know what happened to their now incenerated friend. But they do now; we told them.
And not only did we go public about the massacre, but we disgraced the entire winged community (I wouldn't be surprised if dragons come out of hiding after this debacle). We blame the bird for our misfortune--which took no human life. Then we audaciously make a hero of the man who piloted the plane to safety. And this, perhaps, would be fine--give Captain "Sully" his due--if we would go ahead and honor the life we took. How about a memorial for our young friend, who now looked like he has spent a decade in the deep fryers of Hell. If we had properly honored him and apologized to birds everywhere for our intrusion into their domain and what it has caused, then all would have been fine; they are a congenial enough sort.
They have ignored for years the hunting we do. They have merely shrugged when we laughingly explode their pigeons with rice after our wedding ceremonies. They tolerate Popeye's and the others. But they will not stoop for this.
Have you seen Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds"? He is the next Nostradamus--except his predictions are not blanketed on every even year and every-other odd year and vague enough to be true or maybe next time or maybe he meant tomorrow . . . yeah, tomorrow. No, Mr. Hitchcock was very clear: the birds will attack. They will be merciless. They will peck to kill. They will beak at our forlorn society with terrifying fervor.
But even old Al's predictions were tame compared with what might ensue when the weather warms. The little birds will come first--sparrows and hummingbirds and the like--and they will test us out. They will spy and examine our defenses. And then the crows and vultures and hawks will form not a flying "V", but intricate formations that spell "DIE" and "RESPECT THE BIRD." Do you know how many birds it will take to shadow your parks, your home, your church with "RETRIBUTION HUMANS!" Millions. And, I hear, they are developing a 'stealth' bird for any necessary spaces. The penguins will come by sea and nothing Morgan Freeman can say will halt their malice. Many I have talked to think the eagles will join America. They are fools. The eagles are so tired of being the laughing stock of the avian community: "Your their pets, squawk, squaw," the other birds taunt them. The eagles want retribution. The ostriches will not come. Their heads are in the sand and not the clouds--the Switzerland of the bird community. But the rest will be here.
Ready yourselves. If our government will not act and our media will not try to remedy our peril, then it is every man for himself. Remember the bird flu? This will be like the bird cancer. I am constructing a bird costume for myself and working on my Birdish (it is a complex language but can be mastered with dilligence). Everyone will have different schemes but this is mine: blend in, move south during the winter, and back north in the summer. I will behave like a squawking retired person who is covered in feathers and donning rubber beak. The flying part will be more difficult but if a guy named 'Sully' and a bunch of stupid birds can do it, how hard can it be?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
