Pigeon poop

Pigeon poop.

It occurred to me today that everything negative in life can be summed up in those two words. Remarkable, isn't it? Now that I'm semi-retired I have time to reflect on these things.

But it makes a weird kind of sense of you'll just bear with me for a moment or two.

You know how it is, you are in an awesome mood, you're running along having a great day at work, the weather is perfect, you're enjoying your favorite hobby, spending time with your loved ones, whatever, and you come back to your car and there it is; pigeon poop.

The balance of your day is done. Right there. One small, yet heaping pile of pigeon poop has just set the mood for the balance of your day.

Heading to lunch with co-workers? I think not. Headed to the hairdresser for that monthly trim? Not likely. Headed to the grocery for last minute stuff for dinner? Uh no. You see, no matter what you had planned, even if you intend to do it, you'll only be thinking of one thing. Yep. Pigeon poop.

The whole rest-of-the-freaking-day pigeon poop will be in your head. It will consume you.

For most of you, the sane and literate among my friends, you're asking yourself, "why is he going on about this pigeon poop stuff?". Ahhhhhh, you are the few, the good people in life, those who have been blessed with the "ignore the pigeon poop and life will go on" gene. Alas, that's not me.

For some, the solution is a quick trip to the car wash, a handy hose, or tipping that homeless guy standing at the highway bypass a buck to wash the offensive substance away. For some of us, those who shall we say, have some time on our hands, we can devote part of our day to cleaning pigeon poop ourselves.

The point, if I have to make it, is that pigeon poop disrupts life's peaceful and carefully structured harmony; and we can't have that, now can we?

I have a simple solution. As I sat this afternoon contemplating yet another day of semi-retired bliss (without the presence of pigeon poop), I realized that the all mighty RedHead in the sky had blessed me with superior intellect, reasoning, the ability to plan, and perhaps very important in this regard, all my digits, including thumbs. Living in Texas (where gunfire doesn't sound out-of-the-ordinary) doesn't hurt either.

With those digits, I can open boxes (think ammo), clean and service weapons (think 12 ga pump), and reason out my very own solution to the problem of pigeon poop. That manly tingling you get while racking the slide isn't a bad way to earn man credits for the day either.

Once employed to, ah, shoo away the pigeon offenders, I'm pretty sure the lesson won't have to be repeated too often around here.

Unfortunately, even in Texas, I can't apply this solution to all matters in life where someone, or somethings, version of pigeon poop effects my day. But who knows? I may be on to something here.

I can't wait to see what revelations appear to me tomorrow.

Pigeon poop. A scourge we can wipe out together!