Even Another Reason...

...I hate environmentalists.

This is a goose. A fucking Canadian goose. You ever dealt with one? I have. Up close and personal. I spent three hours chasing these worthless creatures around so they could be caged and shipped to Louisiana and Mississippi. When you grab them, even though they are molting, they will bite the piss out your arms with their beaks and flap their wings with such force that you feel as if you have broken a few ribs. Despite shipping them off, they came back. With their children. We got a border collie to mark his territory and chase them off. Kinda works, but not so much.

UPDATE: As I started writing this the NBC evening news did a story on the same thing. I'm suing for plagiarism.

I don't like them and never will. When I was in the golf course industry they used to shit all over EVERYTHING. They still do, in my so-called backyard. If I go fishing I wear the oldest pair of boots I have because I have to walk through so much of that crap that it ain't worth cleaning the soles. But, I never hurt one intentionally. Nor had I ever thought of doing so. And I didn't tonight on the way home. There are several places where businesses think it's modern and sexy to have a pond at their entrance. No problem, 'cept when the fucking geese take up squatters rights. Then it's an issue, because it's on a major thoroughfare, and pretty close to the road.

I try to pay attention to my surroundings when driving. Hence no wrecks since I was sixteen and playing Le Mans on a rain slicked, winding road in a VW Beetle. I saw the little fucker on the side of the road, and honked as I always do, which usually scares them enough to scoot their ass out of the way. Not this Canadian. I believe it actually looked up at me with disdain in it's eyes and murmured through its beak..."Just try it!!".

Which I did. Dead duck. Or goose, in this case. I felt bad, but traffic moves at 50 MPH and I'm not about to come to a stop for a fucking Canadian, goose or not. But NOOO, the person behind me apparently became outraged. In an instance they were up beside me honking and wailing their arms demanding I go back and take responsibility for my actions.

My actions? The quacker stepped out in front of my truck. It's a goose. There's nothing left for soup or deep frying. Go home and have a drink. She was vehemently adamant that I go back and clean up my mess and check on its children. HUH? How do you know she had chittlins? Because they all do this time of year. HAH!! Not next year, they won't.

As I had pulled into the center turn lane to avoid delaying anyone else, I'd finally had enough and reached into the back seat, grabbed my sawed off shovel handle and told the bitch to call animal control to come clean up the carnage. Or she could do it. Either way. But I was done with her psycho-environmental ass.

I was going to have chicken tonight. Not so palatable now. I don't feel guilty, but I'm thinking beef. Cows don't walk out in front of my ass. Except in my dreams. Then I figure they're just metaphors for ex-girlfriends.