Archive for April, 2012

What Birds Actually Are

Posted: April 13, 2012 by kaostheory in Slice of Life
Tags: , , ,

We’re going to start by saying that this one may well be controversial. A lot of people may get upset by what we have to say but the time has come to no longer be afraid of our beliefs. The truth must be told. Too long have we just sat to the side while things have happened.

Ladies and gentlemen…all birds are assholes.

I know, I know. It’s shocking to hear but hear me out. I know you all think that birds are the cute little things that cheep prettily and fly around, munching on seeds and the like. But you’re wrong. Let me explain to you how some of these so-called “adorable” creatures are just really average sized dicks. With wings. Flying dicks.

(Note to self: trademark that name. It could be a hot as hell meme.)
——
Blue jay: Right off the bat, fuck these guys. Little psychopaths. For one, they are bigger than most songbirds so they can throw their weight around. They’re basically the meathead juicers from New Jersey walking into a bar (or birdbath) and shoving the chickadees to the side in order to get their Jagerbombs and suet pinecones. They are aggressive, territorial, and outright mean. When I worked at a furniture store, I had to fight one off with a freaking BOX CUTTER just to get the little bastard to stop dive-bombing my eyeballs. True story.

Chickadee: Oh no, we’re not gonna let this little prick off the hook. All flying around, looking adorable with its little black and white coloring and tiny body. Yeah, it’s got a deep, dark secret though. Meth. You heard me. Chickadees are meth dealers. Think about it. Why would they NOT be? Yeah. I thought so.

Mockingbird: This jerk is just like that dick at the bar that gets liquored up and makes fun at everyone nearby. Guess what, jagoff? Mimicking other birds isn’t funny. It isn’t cute. All it does is show that you can do impressions. Whoop-de-shit. Who know who else does impressions? The cast of MADTV. Do you really want to be like them? You know who else does it? Those jackholes who are raping the memory of the Three Stooges. You’re a stooge! How about you use your own voice for once, you animal kingdom Frank Caliendo bitch.

Cardinal: Strutting around, thinking he’s all hot shit because he’s got loads of color prettying up the neighborhood. Feh. It’s called trying too hard and you’re the fucking physical exemplar. And that’s the males! The females are all brown and drab with just a little bit of coloring. You KNOW that he beats her. Comes home drunk to the nest one night, dragging her along by one wing, starts whipping the shit out of her with an extension cord because she had the AUDACITY to wear that dress with the plunging neckline which makes him look like a cuckold with all the other birds staring at her. Get some therapy, Cardinal. Get help.

Purple Finch: Could it BE any more of a homosexual?

Robin: You know how there’s that jerk who, whenever he hears that “You’re one in a million!” compliment, always chimes in with some tired-ass joke about that meaning that there’s still at least four people just like them in Atlanta alone? Yeah, that’s who the robin is being compared to. These birds are EVERYWHERE – cheeping, genociding worms, shitting on cars. It’s like a biological cloning experiment gone wrong. It’s like zombies. If birds could be zombies, this would be that kind of bird. Plus, one of the lamest sidekicks in comics history adopted you as a name so…fuck you, Robin.

Titmouse: HAH. What an unfortunate name, both for the bird and for the world. When you hear the name ‘titmouse’, I prefer to picture Minnie as a stripper in some dank club on a Thursday night, high as a kite with three grams of coke up that nose, dollar bills stuffed into her g-string, gyrating listlessly for Bluto and Pete (the douchebag neighbor on Goof Troop) as Mickey sits at home, wife-beater stained with the grease of a thousand cheeseburgers, a fifth of rye dangling from his gloveless paw. Okay, that went to a darker place than I was expecting.

Grackle/Raven/Crow: You know what’s a really fun kind of creature to be? One that has its mere presence exist as a DIRECT PORTENT OF DEATH. Know what’s even more fun? Edgar Allen Poe freaking the hell out over you and some long-since-unaddressed grief and trauma. Know what’s even more fun? Being a fucking grackle. One of these things is not like the other. Be honest. You just sang that to yourself, didn’t you?

Vulture: This is a creature that has its sole purpose in life to be eating the dead, rotting, and probably skid-marked remains of whatever furry little housepet got obliterated by a F-150 on the highway. I can’t even say anything about this. It’s like the Kardashians. You can try to insult them all you want, but the reality of the situation is that they will shit on themselves more than even fiction could.

Eagle: Keep on gloating, jackass. If Ben Franklin had been given his way, the national bird would have been the turkey and we would have been having roast eagle on Thanksgiving. And remember, it’s a quick hop, skip, and a jump from majestic to extinct, so maybe don’t be such a high and mighty prick all the time.

Turkey: Dude, let the Ben Franklin thing go. AND STOP RUNNING THE HELL IN FRONT OF MY CAR. Seriously, I don’t want to have to replace my windshield because one of you douchebags decided that you wanted to lay your wattles in the back seat of my Camry. Come on, man. I know you’re delicious with your anal cavity jammed full of bread crumbs and seasoning, but you don’t have to be a full-on retard near moving traffic.

Towhee: I don’t even know what the hell kind of bird this is.

Carolina Wren: THIS MOTHER FUCKER. Sure, he LOOKS like an adorable elderly gentleman, with his fat body, long beak, and regal stature. He’s an absolutely cute as hell bird. THEN HE OPENS HIS GODDAMN MOUTH. When he opens his beak, every scream every screamed by every soul in abject torment in the very deepest and darkest pits of Hell comes together to RIP THE WORLD ASUNDER. This is the Bird of the End Days. This is the Bird that Eats Men’s Souls. THIS IS THE LITTLE COCKSUCKER THAT DECIDES IT’S FUCKING FUNNY TO WAKE ME UP WHEN I’M STILL DRUNK AS SHIT ON TWO BOTTLES OF WINE AT SIX IN THE FUCKING MORNING. If there was every a bird that deserved to be cast, wingless and dipped in barbecue sauce, into a pit of hungry feral wolverines, this would be the little bastard most deserving. I hate you, Carolina Wren.
——
(You just kind of…think of an idea and go, don’t you? – ed.)

I don’t always listen to myself talk.

(Clearly. – ed.)