You know how at the bottom of the apple barrel they have the rotted out apples… the ones that stink to high heaven and unless you be one of those frugal sorts who still thinks they can make a batch of apple mint jelly out of them, they probably ought to be thrown away? And then below those rotten apples, you have a layer of sludge… kind of like a slurry of all of the apples who died before and gave of their goodness to be the sludge at the bottom of the apple barrel. Got the picture? It just so happens, if you scrape up the sludge and look underneath, you’ll find me… the lowest of the low… BABY BIRD killer extraordinaire! It’s not like I was carrying a BB gun around, shooting at poor innocent baby birdies. It’s just that I happened to cross their paths, spreading my luck into the universe… kind of like a bad luck fertilizer… next thing you know, 2 baby birds… dead as door nails (who came up with that saying? Was a door nail ever alive to become dead… voodoo doornails?) Meanwhile, back at the baby bird killing spree ranch, there was this one:
When I was out walking one night last week… minding my own dagblasted business, I came across this little pumpkin. It wouldn’t move, it couldn’t fly, and it let me pet it. Recipe for disaster. I didn’t know what to do with it, so after about 15 minutes of calling everyone I knew, asking if they’d be interested in adopting a baby bird for 10 minutes before it got killed next to the heat vent (true story), I finally just left it sitting there tweeting and helpless. Broke my heart in two to do it, but what was I going to do with a 2-ounce baby bird in a yard full of cats? I drove my car by the spot after I’d finished my walk, and it was nowhere to be seen. Pretty sure it went the way of the circle of life… bye bye birdie (now I know where they came up with the name for that musical!)
The 2nd baby bird just so happened to fall down my window well one morning… and then couldn’t fly out.
The mother robin would come down into the well twirping at the thing and bringing him/her food and supplies, like leaves and twigs and a Valium or 12 (for the occupant of the room next to the window well)… Pretty sure it was trying to make a nest down there. I let this process go on for 2 sleepless nights. TWO sleepless nights of twirping and turding all over my window… yes, I said turding. By day 3, I’d had enough. I was hoping I could last long enough until his/her wings matured and he/she could just fly on out to Bermuda or wherever they go in the winter, but day 3 and I called my dad to come and fish the sucker out of the well. You know the rest of the story… if not, read your Biology text book and call me in the morning.
Poor little suckers anyway… moral of the story, just like you shouldn’t walk under a ladder or cross a black cat, you should, under no circumstances, run into me on any day that ends in Y.
To drown my sorrows after becoming a serial baby bird killer, I decided I’d treat myself to what the locals call a “Dirty Diet Coke” (patent pending). Sister, Lindsay had been talking to some friends who thought she’d just fallen off a turnip truck because she’d never heard of it. Lindsay called up Madre and informed her of it, so we set out on Saturday morning during one of my work breaks to find us one. According to Lindsay via her friends, you were supposed to ask for a “Dirty Diet Coke” at Arby’s. It wasn’t on the menu… it was some underground drink that you had to specially order.
Before I go any further, I live in Utah, when someone tells you about a “Dirty Diet Coke” in Utah, it means something entirely different than it does in the rest of the United States. Most states would think “dirty” would be 1/4 Diet Coke and 3/4 Jack Daniels. In Utah, “dirty” means one of two things… A.) It needs to be warshed in the warshing machine (backwoods warshing, yo) or 2.) someone done dumped a pile of dirt into your Coke. No other options.
To make a long story even longer, Madre and I went to the Arby’s drive-through, acting like we were transporting 800 kilos of illegal marijuana in the trunk. We whispered into the intercom… Psssstttt… we’ll take 2 of your secret recipe Dirty Diet Cokes… psssstttt… in exchange for a warsher load of Dirt. The chic on the other end acted like we’d sprouted horns out our rumps. So, we asked again… and again she was all, Wait here, I’m calling the men in white coats. Okay, she didn’t actually say that word for word, but considering the fact that I was acting all embarrassed teenager in the passenger seat, all slumping down in my seat and trying to disappear underneath my shirt whilst all of a sudden becoming psycholy interested in the smudge on the passenger window, you’d think we were running down Main Street nekked. They probably thought we were a couple of alcoholics trying to score some alcoholic beverages at the fast food joints on account of being kicked out of the bars in town. Big lushes anyway…
Come to find out, Lindsay and Shayne had the same experience trying to find this Dirty Diet Coke at Arby’s… so, instead of burying her head in the sand, she just drove on over to Wendy’s and did the same thing. The definition of insanity? Trying the same thing over and over, expecting different results. Turns out she was up in the night. The drink is at RB’s, not Arby’s… some service/gas station down South SLC way. If anyone cares, I’m planning on picking up my pride at the Mickey D drive-through… I’ll let you know if they have it.
PS – For those who were curious, I still don’t know what the crimeny puffs a Dirty Diet Coke is, but according to the gossip mill, it contains some sort of combination including Diet Coke, lime, and coconut… personally, it would be easier just to poor a pint of vodka in there and call it a day.
PPS – HAPPY BELATED FATHER’S DAY to my dad… and any dads out there in blogger land. Hope you all got spoiled!
Question of the Day: We did this around the dinner table tonight… it was fun to learn a few things about my deceased grandparents… What is your favorite memory of your father?