At approximately 4:30am every morning, I awake to the sound of a bird outside my bedroom window. Now, other than the early hour, normally I would find this very refreshing. The idea of little birds fluttering in the tree tops, going about their morning business singing their sweet little songs a la some Disney story (Snow White or similar) is very refreshing and a great way to start the day.
But in this case, not so much.
This birdie is not your typical Walt Disney style birdie. Where the Disney birdies sing sweetly – tweet tweet tweetie-tweet tweet – and flitter to and fro from branch to branch, my birdie is more like, “TWEET BITCH!” and is probably more the size of a penguin, bowing the pine branch it sits on to the point of snapping.
I picture it holding a loaded .44 in its wing, turned sideways gangsta style; it is eyeballing me through the bedroom window and aiming at me, screeching, “TWEET BITCH! YO, GET YOUR LAZY MOFO ASS OUT OF BED BEFORE I POP A CAP OFF IN IT!”
By 5:30am – 15 minutes before my alarm goes off – it tires of harassing me and flies off to accomplish whatever business gangsta birdies have; visiting baby mamas, dropping ostrich egg sized poops on freshly washed cars and laughing hysterically when the car alarm goes off, roughing up pit pulls and such I imagine. I lie there in my bed fantasizing about throwing something at it when it starts up tomorrow morning, but I am afraid it will manage to shoot me and how will I explain the gunshot wound to the ER nurse? No one will believe it was Gangsta Tweety Bird.