Ok, it’s getting cold outside. I thought birds fly south when it gets cold. At least that’s what they do back home. But I suppose this is as far south as some of those birds go. Fairfax County, VA. Yes, I can see the birds’ travel agent trying to sell this location now…”Yes, Vienna is a beautiful town, just across the bridge from DC, with lovely smog from Beltway traffic, and plenty of low-lying tree tops on which to rest your laurels. There are lots of office workers there who take up space for the majority of the day. It’s a great place to spend your winter.” Well I’m mad at that travel agent now.
I was on my way back from lunch and I heard all of this commotion in the trees just above my head. Lots of rustling and strange gutteral sounds that pigeons make when communicating with their homies. I’m not sure if the red shirt I have on today makes me look like some type of extra large berry but out of nowhere, three big-ass birds land on my shoulders and start pecking at my shirt and my ears. I’m not wearing green or brown so I know I couldn’t have looked like a comfy shrub on which to take up residence. For those of you who don’t know, pigeon beaks hurt like a mutha^&*). I thought one of them actually drew blood, but to my relief, it didn’t. If it did, I was really about to step out of here and find some rabies and cooties vaccines, because God only knows where pigeon piehole has been.
Once I took about ten running steps, the pigeons flew off of my shoulders and back into the treees above. Then I heard a faint, sick-sounding thud–kind of like what a spitball landing on a chalkboard sounds like. I heard it again, then once again, again, again, again. It sounded like I was in a war of spitball flinging fourth graders. My first instinct was to duck, but curiosity got the best of me. I took a glance upward, and at that moment, everything registered and I knew what was about to happen. Pigeon posterior in prime position to poop. I had one of those B-movie quality slow-motion moments, “Noooooooooooo” in the crazy altered voice as the pooplet made its way to my cheek.
Oh my holy hot mess, I have officially been shat on. I made a bee-line for the ladies room and washed the crap off of my face (mmm, double entendre or something) then went back to my office. I called my mom to share my unfortunate story with her, and I was really expecting some type of sympathy. Like maybe something along the lines of, “Aww, my poor baby, are you alright? Did the pigeon beak break your skin? Did the poop get on your clothes, did it stain anything?”. But no, all she does is tell me that getting shat on is good luck. Umm, well if it was good luck, my sweater wouldn’t have gotten caught up in the front door of the building when I was coming back in to wash off, leaving me fighting standing in the middle of the lobby with crap on my face cussing up a storm. When I told her that, she laughed and said, “Well honey, all I can tell you then is…shit happens”
Ha. Ha. Friggin Ha.