Pea Soup with Streaks of Cream

It hit me with a soft thud. A gentle love tap on the head, like a careful shopper testing the rind of a textured cantaloupe, only the fingerprint left was sickly green offset with ridges of white.

Friends, I was shat upon this morning. *plop* Serves me right.
I've never liked pigeons.

Living in the city, Pigeon aerial release is a constant threat. It's always a friend of a friend who was late for an interview. *plop* She's covered in stinky pigeon poo. A father of a co-worker was leaning back on a sunny afternoon, stretching his arms and yawning widly. *plop* Dad's stretch becomes dad's blech. Getting shit on by a pigeon sits right up there with seeing someone fall infront of a subway train, atleast as far as urban myths go.

"Did you hear about the smartly dressed gay man with bird poop on his head tossing himself in front of the F train?"

"Yeah. I'd kill myself too if a pigeon shit on my head."

Pigeons are filthy creatures. I've never particularly liked pigeons.

One exhaustive evening upon emerging from the subway terminal, I laid eyes upon a bevy of black, grey and white birdies voraciously pecking a fallen prize. Popcorn? Bread crumbs? Cheerios? Alas, no...

The pigeons were devouring a fried chicken breast. Gah! Likely with fava beans and a nice Chianti... Phphphpphphphhph

One freezing morning in January, stomping through a crunchy layer of dawn snow, I spied a peculiar pigeon politely placed with his petite posterior poised to passers-by. How curious? I decided charity must prevail over my usual opinion of pesky pigeons, therefore I approached the miniscule birdy in complete Dr. Dolittle fashion, prepared to diagnose why the little avian was alone on such a chilly, wintery morning...

The bird was frozen as stiff as a Lean Cuisine TV dinner, and something had knibbled it's head completely off, reducing the neck to a grisly stump... Gah!

One delightful afternoon walking in Central Park, I noticed a cheery old lady feeding copious amounts of pigeons. "Just like the kindly pigeon lady in Mary Poppins!", I thought to myself. I approached the kindly bag lady, and again, was revulsed!

The hag had an acrid smell and across her torn, tattered robes wild pigeons sat, pooped and pecked at her feet, hands, lap, and shoulders. Gah!

Well, her example more cites my classist distaste of the homeless, not my disgust (edging towards hatred) of pigeons. But couple the two negatives and...ick! Alas, I'm left with a sticky, proudly receding hairline and a cloying, metallic scent which I'm certain everyone detects. I know the pigeons do.

Here on the 24th floor I spy out my window the pigeons lined up on the opposing ledge. Dozens, maybe a hundred shiny round eyes staring blankly, at nothing, yet strangely, at everything; staring at me.

Damn pigeons.