Geese suck. Seriously, they are horrible. I want to fight a goose. And I think I could take it. So they have a beaks. So what. I have thumbs. And teeth. And a brain that is larger than a walnut. I would OWN a goose. I dodge and weave, baby.
Why, oh, why do I suddenly want to go twelve rounds with water fowl? Because they suck! I already said that, but it deserved repetition. I was driving to work this morning when nine geese started walking across the street in my neighborhood. It was the exact number of geese that prevented me from driving around them on either side. They planned it! These geese were in cahoots! Conspiring to make me late. Weak sauce.
Four minutes, I waited four minutes for these bastards to do their slow pimp roll across the street. I wanted to jump out of my car, grab one, cook it, and eat it. But I have iron self-control, so I didn’t. And, despite my earlier bravado about being able to beat up a goose, I’m kind of scared of them.
It brought back some disturbing memories of my days in an illegal underground Goose fighting club. I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to supress those days. Fortunes wasted, years of training, all those hours of surgery to repair beak injuries… I can’t go back to that.
Oliver and I are finding our way without the adrenaline high that comes from ninja-kicking a goose. I have to get my kicks from the awed looks of co-workers about my bourgeoning beard.
Seriously, though, I hate geese.
On a non-fowl related note… my man Jared is visiting the apartment. He is the guy who introduced me to whiskerino two years ago. And he is at the same point I am. He has upped the beard quotient of this apartment and it makes me glad. And I’d show a picture of him and I in the apartment this week, but… he is out, and I wanna post this already, so I’m just gonna use a picture from the throwdown in 2008. Sue me.