Sunday, March 20, 2011


Spring!  When a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love.  That's the best time to whack him over the head with a club and lock him in a closet.  "Think about something else, young man!" you yell through the door.  "You're just asking for trouble with all this 'lovey-dovey' crap!"  Don't forget to feed him at least once a day, and make sure he's getting a life-sustaining amount of oxygen in there.  You're already in enough hot water as it is without hanging a murder rap around your neck. 

Actually, my thoughts do turn to love every spring.  I think about how much I love to hate spring's big fat guts.  To me, spring means the return of hot weather, bugs, and bird crap all over my car.  It also means that summer is just around the corner, and I hate summer even more than I hate spring.  "But, porfle!" you would protest if, for some reason, you actually cared.  "Spring is a magical time of beautiful flowers and lush greenery, and the lovely, lilting music of birdsong!"  Well, here's my answer to that--my dog's butt.  Enjoy!

Birds would be a lot more wonderful to have around if they would simply learn to shut the hell up more often.  Think of the times you've tried to sleep a little later than usual, but you kept getting blasted awake by a bunch of birds sitting around in the trees chirping their freakin' heads off.  What the hell are they saying to each other?  It's probably just stupid pointless chit-chat like "Boy, that fat, slimy earthworm really hit the spot" or "Lookit that dumbass down there washing his car" or "FYI--I've got the urge to mate and I'm rarin' to go!  YEE-HAAAA!" 

"SHUT UP!!!" I scream out my window.  "SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUUUUT UUUUUUP!!!"  Invariably, there's some old fart in a fishing hat out watering his lawn or something and he thinks I'm talking to him.  "No, YOU shut up!" he yells back indignantly. 

"I wasn't talking to you!" I shriek at the top of my lungs.  "I was talking to the BIRDS--DUMBASS!"  I love totally winning an argument like that.  Sure, it destroys the poor guy, but he asked for it by getting involved.  Besides, just knowing that he's out watering his stupid lawn while I'm trying to sleep ticks me off.  For all I know, all of those birds making such an insufferable racket might be talking about him.  "Hey, check out the old fart in the fishing hat!  Let's crap on his head!"

Of course, I don't want to give the impression that I don't like birds, because I do.  Birds have saved me an awful lot of money on cat food over the years.  And they make wonderful targets, too.  In fact, anytime you're stuck for something nice to say about anything, you can always say, "Well, it makes a dandy target."  This is especially true of things like Muppets, Paris Hilton CDs, or Carrot Top.  "Fun to shoot at" and "explodes in a pleasing fashion" are other positive ways of describing certain things so that you sound nice. 

But this doesn't work with spring, because you can't shoot at it or blow it up.  You can make it the "target" of caustic, extremely witty barbs as I've done, but that doesn't bother it a bit.  It just keeps barging into your life every year and sitting on your face and braying "HEE HAW!!!" like a donkey.  Only it's an invulnerable Super-Donkey that you can't shoot or blow up like regular donkeys.  That's why, whenever someone starts gushing about how wonderful spring is and then asks me how I feel about it, I always tell them:

"Spring is an invulnerable Super-Donkey that you can't shoot or blow up like regular donkeys."

(originally posted at

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