The Here and Now

I hate bloody birds.
They are evil and crazy and have it in for me.

I am currently at a friend’s house, curled up on a giant bean bag wanna-be, (a stylish new Love Sac) spending too much time on various web pages, and munching on a healthy snack of chips and salsa.

The chips and salsa become an integral part of this story.
So does the Love Sac.

This house is not what you would call a normal home. It is the home to one of my best friends, her husband (who is now in Iraq), a boa constrictor named Lucifer, a second snake slightly smaller whose name I have no clue of, a wiggly puppy going by the name Timmy, and a damn cockatiel, Stoner.

Now, all day, several hours at least, I have been doing my thing. Watching Numb3rs, surfing, nodding off, and contemplating the meaning of the word “martini”.
Lucifer has been doing his thing. Lying silently and motionless in his well-lit box.
John Doe snake has been doing his thing. Slithering around and being creepy.
Timmy has been doing his thing. Wiggling on the couch, wiggling on the floor, chewing my toes, and licking his nether regions.
And Stoner has been doing his thing. Being a damn bird, potentially carrying the Avian Flu, and sharpening his beak for his planned assault on my right eyeball. (I have seen him giving me evil glares, menacingly stalking my right ocular cavity.)

Everything was calm in the Sorell Zoo until I made the mistake of opening that fateful bag of chips.
At first chomp all hell broke loose.

The snakes are not included in the hell. They, lacking ears and a taste for spice and salt, did not care about my evening snack.

Timmy, however, was magically at my side, staring at me with those dewy eyes and a tail wagging past the speed of sound.
That was cute and easy to ignore.

Stoner, however, went into a tizzy. Flying around my head, landing on the table, glaring from the top of the snakes box, balancing on my coke bottle, and perching on my shoulders.
The fluttering of angry wings beat around me.

At first I stared, started, hid my right eye from imminent attack.
Then I decided that the best coarse of action was to completely ignore the flying minion of Satan.
But what actually happened was far worse than a gaping hole in the head.

The bird landed on the top of the slick and shiny Love Sac where I was so happily reclining. It was then that I sat up to dip a chip.

My movement disrupted Stoner’s precarious perch. He began to slide.

Here would be a good moment to mention that my pants are a bit loose. When I move or wiggle, or lay perfectly still, they have a habit of moving like slip and slide, making me resemble a plumber.
The act of constant reaching and dipping had made my pants the lowest of low riders. And since I was stuffing my face I was much too lazy and preoccupied to pull up my drawers.

So, the bird began to slide.

He slipped and skwaked, heading strait toward the indention made by my nearly naked arse.

I bet you can guess where this he heading.

Before I could react, the tiny demon beak hit me directly in the crack.

I flew from the bag.
So did the bird.

He head strait for his cage where he sat dazed, confused, stunned, and a little distressed.

I put the chips away. There is something about a beak in the ass that makes you re-think your diet.