A Whole Lot of Nonsense

Wouldn't it be heinous if all seagulls were the size of Cessna Skyhawks, with beaks shaped like megaphones? You'd be walking along the street, head down against the rain, dreaming of oven-warmed slippers and a hot cup of joe--minding your own beeswax, sort of thing--when

Right in the ear! You never stood a chance. Sneaky seagull blighter snuck right up on you. They can do that, see, since they stand as tall as you do. Gone are the days when a gull couldn't get anywhere near your head without its flapping betraying its presence. Now, with its feather-light birdbones and its big paddy feet, it can tiptoe straight up, apply its beak to your earhole, and....

Imagine the city, too--as grey as the winter sky, as far as the eye could see. Every shite out of every Brobdingnagian seagull's arse would be like a bucket of Benjamin Moore's finest. The city would be whitewashed overnight. Window-cleaners would launch profitable sidelines in fertilizer. On the streets, it'd be a bobbing river of steel-reinforced umbrellas. Seagull restaurants would spring up like mushrooms: get your fried gull-feet here! Seagull soup! Seagull stew! Creamed seagull dumplings! Some idiot--some idiot would even try and ride a seagull, and end up splattered all over Granville and First. Skyscrapers would have hawk decals the size of 747s pasted to their sides.

Oh! Oh! I've got one: you'd be walking down the street in company when, turning around to talk to your friend, you'd discover that a seagull had interjected itself between you and your intended partner in conversation. It would simultaneously turn to look at you, and knock you senseless with its beak.

Or you'd be just coming out of McDonald's, burger poised for a big juicy bite, when--BRAWK! SNAP! GOBBLE! What the fuck?

--and, before you could do a thing about it, the great hulking pest would take to the air, spraying you liberally with birdie dandruff.

"Then, he gave me a kiss, and it was like getting mouthed by a frog."

Well, it isn't the year of the lion,
The tiger, the bear, or the toad.
And it sure ain't the year of the hedgehog:
He's flattened to mush in the road.

It's a bad year for turtles and bison;
It's out with the ram and the boar.
'Tis the year of the Rat; what'd you think about that?
Have a wonderful two-thousand four!

Auuuuuuugh.

(Remember that scene from The Princess Bride, where wossname with the six fingers asks Westley how he feels about his recent experience with the nipple-sucking torture machine? Well, I took his answer.)