I failed to mention it, because I didn't want Degeneres-esque backlash, but a couple of months ago, I ran over a pigeon in the Whole Foods parking lot. Worse, and I can't believe I'm confessing to this, when I sped the hell out of there to avoid the wrath of rich hippies, I peeked in my rear view mirror to see it writhing in the middle of the parking lot.
Did I call some type of authority?
No. I did not.
I know. I know. The guilt haunts me.
Well, I guess pigeons talk, because this morning those bitches got me back.
Driving through the ghetto, minding my own business and singing along to the sadly forgotten Pointer Sisters, this pigeon flies right in front of Rhonda the Honda at like, 2 miles an hour. How is this possible? I have a basic, 8th grade understanding of the physics of flight and this pigeon was flapping in front of my car as if held on invisible strings by the Lord himself.
So much time passed with this damn bird moseying through the air that it actually, I swear to God, hit my windshield.
Then it just kinda rolled off.
I know. I know.
But in driving on, in complete amusement and shock, I checked out how the bird was handling it's fall and it really just seemed to dust itself off and get back to business.
I drive on, bridges, tunnels, etc. and head to SuburbaGym, where I crank out 45 minutes of hungover, half-assed commitment to health.
I emerge to discover my car COVERED in bird shit.
This was not one rouge turd.
My car is no longer silver. It's now white. And brown. And sorta green...