Monday, November 24, 2008
I believe there is a secret war. A war against my four wheeled coach. A war that threatens to engulf the entire bird populous, united by hate for a Civic of Honda. This extends beyond the simplistic "ooh a bird crapped on my car" and goes ounces beyond that. Crafted bombs fall like clockwork while I slumber forming a rorschach of hardened poo on my cars white exterior. I don't know who started this, but I am told peace is removed from the table. I grow weary of this battle, but I have tricks, I have weapons of my own; a car cover approaches and with it, the end of war itself.