These rash little motherfuckers seem to have conspired against me city-wide. You probably think I'm joking. "Oh that's funny. Pigeons don't conspire," you'll say. No. It's not funny. And yes, they do. I swear upon all that is holy, at least once a day, a pigeon flies two inches over my head without warning. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of their poor judgment and utter disregard for my safely. I'm also sick of their white, pasty shit falling from the sky--but that's another story.
Listen pigeon, if I'm walking down the sidewalk, and you're pecking away at a morsel of rye, there is no reason--I repeat: NO REASON--to flip out, flap your wings frantically, and take off like a scud missile in the direction of my face.
I don't deserve this. Please stop.
If one more of you reckless, irresponsible bastards so much as jostles a hair on my head, I'll be forced to plant bread crumbs soaked in arsenic around the city. Either that, or I'm going to get a hat fitted with those anti-roosting bird spikes. Maybe getting impaled will teach you to calm the fuck down.