Some bird shat on my bicycle again. This time right over the rubber grip of the gear changing handle. Had to go back into the house to get a disinfectant wipe and scrub it off before I could go anywhere.
Before you go calling me some kind of OCD cleanliness mad head, let me say I'm not usually that bad, but with all the bird-flu and swine-flu stuff just lately it's got me worried.
There are a lot of diseases birds can carry. Not really bothered about the currently known ones. It's the idea of contracting some strange new never-before-in-humans type thing that bugs me the most.
Imagine you start feeling a wee bit ill, you end up off work with stomach cramps and a case of the runs. Then you're puking. You see the doctor, thinking he'll throw you some anti-biotics and you'll be on your feet in a week. But no, next thing you know it's hospital visits and blood tests then BANG, you're in the fucking isolation ward and some Professor is on the TV talking to Alastair Stewart about "new vectors" and "first human case", he's also throwing in "contagious" and "deadly". That's it. You're fucked.
You're Ground Zero for The Bird AIDs
And what's going through your mind in that isolation room? As you come in and out of consciousness, breathing your final hours of breath, what are you thinking? I'll tell you what. It's something they haven't dared tell you to your face, but you know it deep down inside, you can imagine it all.
All over the Internet people are calling you The Chicken Fucker. You're in there dying of The Bird AIDs and they're making up jokes about The Chicken Fucker and sending them round Facebook. Someone's even started a Facebook group dedicated to mocking you. You're lying in a bubble with no human contact and they're out there on the web passing round photo-shopped images of you sucking off Foghorn Leghorn. Some bastard has even put out an Adobe Flash game featuring you dodging falling bird shit and when the player dies it says in big red letters "You've got The Bird AIDs, Chicken Fucker"
You're the biggest fucking joke on the Internet, a hit on MySpace, YouTube and Google's new link king, because you're The Chicken Fucker and you're dying of The Bird AIDs.
And your funeral? What's that going to be like? I'll tell you. It's going to be quiet. Fucking quiet. No-one is going to want to turn up for your funeral out of sheer embarrassment at even having KNOWN The Chicken Fucker, never mind having given birth to him.
Yep, that's right. Even your own mother is too rid necked by the shame of it all to show face at your funeral, because you're The Chicken Fucker and you died of The Bird AIDs.
That's if they give you a funeral and don't just incinerate your diseased ridden corpse and everything in the room with it.
The crap thing is, you never even imagined nor fantasized, not for one second, about sticking your dick in some chickens tight, feathered little hole. You had The Good Bird AIDs, but no-ones going to give a fuck about that.
So that's why I used the disinfectant wipe and washed my hands after, so they don't put on my tomb stone
Here lies The Chicken Fucker, he died of The Bird AIDs