“A man who cannot stand up to a pigeon is not a man at all.” — Plato.
If you’re not able to stare a flying rat in the eye then how are you able to look yourself in the mirror? This is something I’m pondering after watching this video. Two weeks I had my own run in with a pigeon. It was Friday, May 29th and I was walking with my dog on the way home from Washington Square Park. The puck was set to drop for game 7 of the Stanley Cup Eastern Conference Finals between America’s Team, the Tampa Bay Lightning, and the dirties team in sports, the new york rangers. The weather was pleasant, the air was crisp with a late Spring chill, but something was awry. As I was walking down my street I felt something hit my shoulder. I didn’t look up for fear of it being the exhaust water from an air-conditioner, because if you look up and get that surprise NYC water in your eyes you will actually die. It’s true, I know a guy who knows a guy who got that stray air water in his eyes and he died on the spot. Anyways, I didn’t look up but I glanced at my arm to see that it was already covered in white mud similar to the white mud from Tommy Boy. However, mud it was not. A pigeon had taken a big ol’ fat crap on me while perched in the fire escape above.
This was the firs time I’d been crapped on by a bird in over two decades. I recall a seagull dropping bombs on me when I was a young pup at the beach in Florida, but never before had a pigeon dropped feces on my shoulder. Maybe that pigeon knew that I was a Lightning fan and it was some sort of revenge for the forthcoming slaughter of the Rangers by the Bolts. Or maybe that pigeon just had to go and I got in the way. Either way, getting pooped on by a bird is INSANELY GOOD LUCK. After getting crapped on by that pigeon the Lightning won game 7, and are tied 2-2 in the Stanley Cup Finals. Suffice it to say that the Lightning have come this far because of my sacrifice of getting dumped on by a pigeon.
So what does any of this have to do with the video above? Well, when I faced that pigeon I didn’t scream like a three-year-old girl, and the pigeon didn’t stare me down afterwards with a look of ‘you just got dominated by a friggin pigeon, how are you going to live with yourself?’ The pigeon that pooped on me flew off in fear, because that pigeon knows I ate his pigeon brethren a few years ago when I was in France. I didn’t order the pigeon, but I was served the pigeon at a classy dinner held at Pablo Picasso’s former Summer home outside of Cannes, and I ate that goddamn pigeon until there was no meat left on those bones.
Me > Pigeons.
Pigeons > That guy.