But there is one thing that comes from the sky that I am not OK with. Something that happens millions of times a day all over the world, which you don’t think about it, until it affects you directly.
I speak of course, of pigeon poop.
I’m not sure if my mother actually believed this, or this was just something she made up to prevent us from crying, but she always used to say it was good luck.
I think the first time she said this was when my sister and I were really little and my sister got pooped on in the backyard. If you don’t know the feeling well, lucky you.
When you are a kid you don’t realize excrement can fall out of the sky. Rain, acorns, things like that yes. But poop? What precedent is there that a poop bomb is even a possibility?
I have been lucky enough to travel to different countries around the world and the one consistent thing that I come across in every single country is the effen pigeons. They are everywhere. I swear when the apocalypse comes and giant aliens eat all of the people on the planet, all that will be left are pigeons and cucarachas.
I can see those frigging cucarachas now, riding their pigeon planes through the sky.
Cucaracha: Dive Sebastian, dive! The skies and land are ours!
Pigeon: Victory is ours Benjamin!
Gross. I hate them all.
Pigeons hit their high note in terms of coolness the first time I was in
when I was in high school. This was back before the city of Venice changed the laws, and vendors were still allowed to sell bird food in the Piazza San Marco. Venice
Tourists from all over the world would pay old men with bags full of bird food. And then you would dump it in your hands while pigeons molested you so your friends could take pictures of you looking like Lord of the Birds.
To be honest when I did it, I thought it was the funniest thing in the world. Even when that pigeon landed on my head and grabbed a…. um, claw, full of my hair.
Have you ever looked at a pigeon’s foot before? They are awful. They are so often mangled and dirty and tied up with dental floss and other trash they can’t get rid of because they don’t have hands.
Because they are pigeons.
Upon my return to
in college, that delight at the hilarity of pigeons quickly disappeared as being exposed to 40 million of them every day, every place, as they try to land on your pizza, and steal your gelato, quickly gets old. Italy
As much as I hated them I tried not to piss them off. They outnumbered me. My roommates in
didn’t feel the same way. One of them, lets call him Rob, had what I can only describe as a karmic experience with pigeons. Italy
We were visiting Sienna for a day trip, checking it out and exploring the sites when we had sat down outside a church to rest for a bit. It was there that Rob began an interesting interaction with a pigeon.
Rob: I really want to catch a pigeon.
10 Minutes later
Rob spits on a pigeon
20 Minutes later
Rob: Oh man I just got shit on by a pigeon.
It seemed like poetic justice to me, something that Rob deserved. The story I am about to relate to you though, has no justification in it whatsoever.
It was in June of this year, several weeks after I had started my new job. The weather for the summer hadn’t yet turned to unbearable. I was excited to be heading in to a job that I loved. I emerged from the E train out into midtown.
The sun was shining, the air was crisp, I was in the best possible mood. I took a look up at the sky and said aloud:
What a beautiful day!
And then I took about 10 steps before somebody threw an entire cup of soup on me.
At least, that’s what it felt like. I looked down on my arm and saw that was in fact PEA soup. Gross. Green pea soup all over my shirt, which thank god was a long sleeved one I had rolled down.
I looked up in shock. Who had thrown this soup on me? Surely somebody had seen the culprit. But nobody seemed to care. How could nobody have seen the… oh I get it.
It quickly dawned on me that it must have been a pigeon, a pigeon that had eaten a bean burrito for dinner.
Great, my arm now covered in bird shit I couldn’t tolerate it, I had to find a fix and quick. Lucky for me, midtown is chockablock with bodegas trying to sell tourists t-shirts that New Yorkers wouldn’t be caught dead wearing, unless of course, that New Yorker had been shit on to start his day.
So I bought the only shirt that seemed appropriate after being pooped on coming out of the subway.
I then walked into an alley and took my shirt off because I couldn’t have the poop sleeve touching my skin anymore, I was starting to go mental. I put on my new t-shirt and then walked directly into a Dry Cleaners and told the nice lady at the counter my story as she began to touch my shirt. (This brought me an instant flashback to an early blog.)
I was pooped on.
“What?” she said.
A bird pooped on me, just now, outside.
Needless to say she slowed the pace at which she was folding up my shirt. She asked me to spell my name about 7 times before giving me a receipt for my shirt and telling me I could pick it up in a week.
Well, we are going on 3 months now and I still haven’t picked my shirt up. Maybe it is because I am so grossed out by that shirt that I can’t wear it in good conscience any more.
Or it could just be that the shirt isn’t actually mine.
I don’t know who that Rich Poehncke is, but I wouldn’t want his shirt. I hear there’s poop on it.