Bird Brain

Happy Memorial Day.

That's right—that's no exclamation, simply a declaration long delayed by bad traffic and droves of mallshoppers. I'm lucky 'happy' is even in my vocabulary this time of night on a day like today.

As bad as work can be, it's always brightened by Ted. Our exchange today was brief but beautiful as he stopped by during our busiest moments. All I had time for was a quick hi-five and hurried plans to meet for a drink after my shift. It gave me something to look forward to, though I'm not sure if that's a good which or a bad witch. Which it is depends on whether you think Zeno's gettin' where he's goin' or not, I guess.

Later on, after work, I got there eventually. Ted and I met at the taco stand and got in line. He was all up in arms about his new apartment, wouldn't shut up bitching long enough for me to get an horchata in straw-wise. I asked him to calm down and handed him his milky drink. I asked him to explain things to me slowly. He says,

I was taking a shit and got shat upon.

I took a moment to process this delightful thought (I was not momat upon, thank God!) and then verified that Ted did in fact live on the top floor of his complex. So who shat upon ye if ye be livin on th'top floor? I asked in my worst brogue.

It wasn't a who, he says, It was an it!

What it? Then I lost my train of thought, 'which it?'

And then over meaty, crisp tacos Ted laid it all out for me: Birds were the it. Ted, like most everyone living among civilized, indoor-plumbed societies, had an open-air vent leading from his bathroom ceiling directly to the roof. This opening was cowled to prevent rainy precipitation from entering the commode, though it seems the cowl left enough room for fowl precipitation. Foul precipitation. Looking for some private shade, pigeons were using Ted's bathroom's vent/cowl arrangement as their own little single-occupant outhouse.

Folklorically birds have deadly aim with their waste, so it occurred to Ted that he could just leave the seat up and hope for the best. Turds out the line of sight was just off though, and the <allit meme="Sylvester J. Pussycat, Sr." rating="PG-13">shitter's shitter was splendidly shat upon.</allit> Beside that, curious cats (he has 3 right now) don't need any extra invitation to close inspection of bathroom porcelain. The situation was bad enough without having to wash a toilet-drenched bird-shat-upon cat. Ted just put down a towel and called his landlord.

Meantime, shits had to be shat. The repair was going to take a few days, so Ted tried to work around the target area. Creative stances and perilous positions were attempted when making a deposit. These almost never worked. After a couple uncomfortable, spattered dumps Ted recalled that he was smarter than a pigeon, bigger than a pigeon, and could pretty much boss those little fuckers around. From then on the hard part for Ted was explaining to his neighbors all the hooting and applause whenever he used the bathroom.

I told Ted through a mouthful of taco that he should probably get a cover for his truck.