Life's a bitch and so's your ma.

Last week I was driving back to the Boy Lair on a fairly deserted stretch of Indiana 37 (aka Speedtrap Mothereffer) when I noticed in my peripheral vision that I was being paced by a migrating goose. It's been argued by many avian biologists that migrating waterfowl potentially use North/South highways and interstates when they navigate, getting easy bearings from above - supplementing their natural instincts, of course.

So, here's this goose and I, doing about 65 MPH down the highway in the waning light of an Indiana afternoon. At about the same time that I noticed that the bird was, indeed, flying the wrong way (North), I also wondered why it was alone. Was this the pariah goose, shunned from an uncaring and cruel goose society for crimes it may or may not have committed? Was this goose all West Niled up and flying North to a nice, quiet place to expire in relative peace? Was it returning to find its goose lover, detained on the edge of a Canadian lake by tree-weasels for ransom?

The goose shuddered then, and took a gigantic liquidy dump the nanosecond we passed over a child's playset, the merry dull thuds hammering mostly onto the slide. Come morning, some child will go outside to play in the waning summer only to find about six pounds of goose loaf on his/her slide. Would s/he weep? Or, would s/he poke it with a stick to find out what's in it, like I would have?

I realized that the goose and I were one and the same. We fly the wrong way. We poop on children's playthings. And, in the end, we're only more enigmatic and alluring because of it.

I waved goodbye and hastily turned into my driveway, emboldened by nature's majesty. I say "hastily" because I had a righteous load on deck myself, and once I changed into my jet-black ninja outfit, that giant wooden Big Toy playground down the road would be hosting my own call of nature.

On Wednesday, my poppets, updates on:

a) Balthazar; or, why I believe that some cats need to bathed in holy water and injected with Ritalin

b) My job; or, why I have a hip-flask.

c) What eating 6 plates of shrimp scampi will do to you.


Until then, I remain,

Dom