A dimwit of a pigeon was eating some breadcrumbs left behind by an equally dimwitted old woman. There were signs posted all over the parking lot: Do not feed the pigeons! The pigeon heard an odd cry, looked around with quirky neck twitches through its pink-ringed black beads for eyes, and returned to the task of brunch. You see, pigeons have the attention span of ants on fire. That is to say, none, whatsoever.
The odd cry was louder now. The pigeon hopped about flapping its puke-spotted peppered wings, then spied another breadcrumb. Just as it was about to peck again, the owner of the cry stepped forward and made himself known. It was a baby rat, a grotesque low to the ground, patchy-haired literal son of a bitch piece of pure vermin. He was full on bawling, tears flying all over the place, like being sprayed by a hose amidst a stupid ridiculous rainstorm while wetting yourself. Lots of moisture.
“I am lost. I don’t know who or what I am. Please help me.” The rat looked at the pigeon and eye-rolled. Even in his current state of amnesia and naivety, the rat knew the pigeon was a symbol of sheer ignorance. But any port in a storm and all that jazz. Ish.
The pigeon wobbled around the baby rat, studying it, especially it’s disproportionate long tail. The pigeon tried to rub its beak like Columbo, but instead spied a sunflower seed shell. The rat watched the pigeon hobble away thinking that this was all part of the process. In fact, it was as far away from procedure as it could possibly be. This is what happens when you rely on the help of one with the shortest attention span, like an ant on fire. The rat cried, “What about me?”
The pigeon turned its head all the way around, “What? Are you talking to me?”
The baby rat lowered his head and sighed loudly.
After twenty three hours of questions, forgetting all the answers, snacking on erratic shapes of bread, munching on puddles (not euphemism), licking on dirty disposable diapers (probably euphemism), more so the baby rat, being chased away by shopping carts and slow moving cars, freaking out on reflections of themselves, the moronic pigeon finally formulated an answer.
“I have determined that your diet consists of garbage like me, a pigeon, but your palate is more focused on fecal matter. In short, you really enjoy eating shit, you put that stuff away like there’s no tomorrow. You scurry and can’t fly.”
The rat nodded. The bird noticed a Starburst ® wrapper, such a curious bright red, and had to see it up close. The rat exclaimed, “Wait!”
The pigeon turned, “What? Are you talking to me?” The rat was exasperated, this went beyond déjà vu; it was the 532nd time this verbal exchange had happened.
The pigeon mumbled to itself trying to remember its train of thought. “You are not a pigeon, like me, yet we have very similar diets. Though, you really like to eat poo. I mean; you really, really, really like the poo poo. You are some kind of poo-aholic.”
The wind picked up and made ripples in the puddles. The pigeon caught sight of the red wax-coated wrapper again.
And then, it happened for the 533rd time. The pigeon concluded, “With all the evidence before me, especially the part where you like to eat crap. Seriously, you love it. I’ve never seen anyone eat as much crap as you have. From all this, I believe that you are an accident lawyer or the vice president.”
Each word stung the baby mouse, as tears welled in his beady vermin eyes, he understood the verdict with great profundity. He made a new promise to himself to visit the nearest exterminator, which was Terminix ®, and turn himself in before the evil within him grows.
MORAL: Counsel without help is useless.