Thursday, August 16, 2012

Pigeon's Kryptonite

Why do pigeons exist? I know the world is all in balance and things usually exist for a reason, but can someone please explain to me why the pigeon exists.

They are everywhere downtown and I am beginning to think that their sole purpose in life is to chase around nervous people and make them uncomfortable.

Here is how a typical day goes for me walking home from work (because even the pigeons aren't awake as early as I am so they aren't around in the morning very often).

I am listening to music power walking my way out of the building, when suddenly... an enormous pigeon jumps into the sidewalk in front of me. I quickly try to dodge his impossible to predict motions when he turns his bobbling gaze towards me, quickening his pace and heading straight for my new path. I try to change my direction but it is too late, other workers have begun to file out of the building and are blocking me from any changes.
The pigeon, now seeing my frail and vulnerable state, pecks towards me in a confident and almost arrogant manner. As our paths finally cross he stops. He stops in the exact place where my foot had intended to land. As I stand awkwardly, paused and holding my hoot high in the air to avoid stepping on the pigeon, I notice the tiny backpack strapped to him.
This is no ordinary pigeon, should my foot drop and touch this pigeon in any slightest way, he will explode in a tiny controlled Tanya-specific explosion. I hold my foot higher once noticing the pressure sensitive bag, scanning for a break  in the crowds so that I can turn and escape.
The pigeon lets out a menacing and bone chilling cry, no doubt informing his team that he has me captured. As the other pigeons begin the march in to finish me off my heart begins to race.
My foot begins to shake from holding it in the air when the lady who collects cigarette butts off the ground appears to my right, staring at me with a glazed and cold expression. This could go one of two ways, I thought to myself, she is either here to help me, or them. I tried to deduce an answer from the blank stare but none could be found.
The lady then reached into a pocket and pulled out an old french fry. The attack pigeon cocked its head to the side at the sight and with a quick flick of the lady's wrist the bird was chasing the golden stick through the air.
I dropped my foot and turned to say thank you to the lady, but she was gone. Vanished into the crowds. I ran to the bus before the pigeons could corner me again, but I knew that the next time I saw the cigarette butt collector I would need to offer her my thanks. I knew the pigeons would try again, but I also now knew their kryptonite.
From that day forward I never left work without a french fry in my pocket.

Obviously I am destined to be an author of the next great American novel - even though I am Canadian. That makes it even more fancy you know.

Better luck next time you evil bastard.

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