I'm back from a drive around the beach.
Nice drive, nice drive.
I ate some ice-cream.
Nice ice-cream, nice ice-cream.
What? You think I'm being boring? You think that I'm not being my usual hilarious, genius self? *ahem*
YOU THINK RIGHT, MORON.
COZ YA KNOW WHY?
Some stupid pigeon/crow/evil bird decided it had too much of food to eat last night, and gratefully used my very expensive shoes as a place of excretion.
The left shoe, to be precise.
Birds, I feel, have radars in their little brains. Sort of like- "ALERT. ALERT. Girl has just stepped out of the house after a nice shower. Engage missile."
Let's make a pact, okay? Let's train birds.
No, really. Not joking.
Let's TRAIN those freaking poo-zookas into knowing exactly where and when to let out their S-Bombs. No, not the cuss words. An actual S-Bomb. O.o
I'm going to write a letter to our state government saying that we all want bathrooms for birds. Nice colorful toilets with therapeutic oils that instigate the dropping of bird S-Bombs.
What say you? They may laugh?
Because when a pigeon decides to drop an S-Bomb on the Chief Minister, only I shall be having the last laugh.
& the pigeon, though that is entirely besides the point.
A classic example