This post was inspired by Tequila and Donuts’ pecker problems. It is meant to be a public service to all grackle haters.
Disclaimer: there were no shit birds hurt in this exercise, even though guns were drawn.
Grackles are birds from hell. The devil sent them just to piss us off.
(photo courtesy of Wikipedia)
Mrs. M was one of the sweetest little ladies I’ve ever known. She lived across the street. She had a huge oak tree, probably over 100 years old, in her front yard. A beautiful, thick, old oak that not only shaded her house but her entire front yard.
One day, Mr. Butthole (his name has been changed to avoid any libel issues) told Mrs. M that she needed to cut down that ole’ oak because it was a health hazard to the neighborhood.
You see, those damn demons from hell, would roost in her tree and poop all over everything. Poor Mrs. M would wash off her sidewalks every morning... and every evening, the black demons returned. And it wasn’t just the massive piles of poop. You had to speak in your “outside voice” (as darlin’ grandboy calls it) just to carry on a normal conversation with a neighbor.
In tears, she told me of her dilemma.
“No ma’mam. Do not even think about cutting down that gorgeous old tree. We’ll find a solution”, said the flamingo …having no idea what the hell to do about those damn demons that have to share their excrement with the world. Our world. Our neighborhood.
GOOGLE to the rescue! 397,822 hits. OH MY GAWD! They are a menace to the entire world!
After a thorough research of information available. … I figured it out and called upon other neighbors to join me in the grackle elimination mission. It would take a week or so, but everyone was in agreement…. the tree and Mrs. M.s feelings were well worth the effort.
Day one: With pans and heavy spoons in hand, we were ready. It was early evening. Here they came. Thousands of those black pooping machines came into the lovely old oak to roost. And the clanking and banging began. At first, it was eight of us. We started banging. Seems if you disturb the turd machines just when they are roosting, they will find a more suitable, perhaps quieter, location. The more we banged, the faster they would leave the tree.
We cheered in victory.
Day two: Dusk. We did it all over again, but this time there were 14 folks banging their little hearts out. Needless to say, the neighborhood kids really got a kick out of a bunch of adults beating our pans with great enthusiasm. Away they flew…again, it worked!
Day three: The noise of the little shitters told us it was time. So we banged. The pan/spoon symphony had grown to include everybody on the block. The instruments expanded beyond kitchen ware. Now there were bottle rockets, kids whistles, and a few cowbells. Those little winged demons flew away. They wouldn’t even land. We’d see ‘em coming and the banging, clanking, yelling, and pops would grow in intensity. It echoed throughout the neighborhood.
Day four: We were ready! Ah Ha! We got your number now, you little shits. They flew right past the ole’ oak.
Day five: No more pooping demons from hell. Mrs. M cried with joy. The kids still wanted to bang the pans. And the ole oak stood poop free for the rest of the night.
But…alas…….there’s a housing facility for special people about 4 blocks from us. Seems those special folks thought there was some kinda “strange-goings-on” in the neighborhood. All that loud banging noise, Every evening.
When the police came by, and a few of us explained…the officers just laughed. They also told us how all the trees surrounding the facility were FULL of grackles.
Sorry special folks.
Every now and then, mostly at dusk, you can hear the faint banging of a pan. Somewhere in the distance.
Bye bye, shit birds. Just stay off our street, out of Mrs. M’s tree, or you’ll be met with some seriously strange-goings-on.