For the past few weeks what I believe is a Bewick's Wren has been living in a hole in our garage, near the washer & dryer. This was, it turns out, a very wise thing, as only things with wings (unlike cats, say, or perhaps beagles) could get in or out, & sex was had & eggs were laid & soon enough I noticed whenever I let the dogs out that there was a lot of action going on, including the peeking out of little beaks from the hole & a harried-looking parents stuffing dead things into said beaks. At no point, by the way, did the Bewicks offer to pay any rent nor did they seem ashamed of their sudden, obviously fecund tenancy. Oh no. They acted as though they were entitled.
Time passed. On Sunday, the youngest of the household beaglets, known only as Winston, was seen perhaps chasing a live thing around the yard. It turned out that this was a baby bird with still some of whatever they call the feather fluff that's on them. Winston was dutifully taken away & forced to read the Bible (which he instead ate, so now he has to read Dianetics, which he refuses to eat) & we waited & sure enough, we soon found the happy parents (terrible tenants) leading the two youngsters through the treetops. The miracle of life in our own backyard! Without all that unnecessary voice-over work!
My point is this: you 21st Century Kids think everything revolves around a Saturday night. You think "party, party, party" even though the planet is dying & our frisbee-shaped alien overseers are eating our glaciers in protest! You can't see your hands in front of your trees - forest - whatever that saying is - because you've turned this one night of the week into some kind of holy time. Imagine, making some particular day a holy day! That would be so fucking dumb! Like, say, if I said, "You can't work on Sunday because it's a holy day." You'd be likely to give me a purple nurple & run away laughing. That's how inane it is. & you're doing it with Saturday night! Can't you see?
Listen to this: the miracle of life I described above, not the bird sex which is kind of sick, but the babies leaving the nest & going out to become accountants or file clerks or restaurant owners (like birds do), that happened not on a Saturday night, but on a Sunday afternoon. You heard me! You know what else? I never have magical things happen to me on a Saturday night. So there. You're proven wrong.
We could compromise. Let's make it Thursday midday. After all, you can sleep it off at work & no one will notice because it's Thursday. I'll bring my dark sunglasses, you bring the Riunite on ice. That's nice.
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