Monday, May 30, 2011

The Simulacra Blackbird WHACK-YA!

Bizarre as it may seem, my understanding of my state of being in the world right now is that I am Right Off The Chart Bananas “Level 27" (!!!) delusional.

So — have I witnessed the as-yet-unborn spectres of my future offspring duelling in some timewarp mayhem scenario with remnants of my Viking ancestors, possibly with swords, possibly with psywarp face-morphing nonsense-twaddle CerebroKin?

Or accidentally clubbed to death seven clearly maniacal ninja types who turned out to be nuns on a makeover night?

Or even shaved what passes for the hirsuteness of my masculinity from my face despite it being a Lounge About The (Heck) Goddamn Vista bank holiday Monday?*

* For anyone not resident in the UK, “bank holiday Monday” is like a fusion of the worst ever monsoon, a stag night for Captain Misery, and that once-in-a-lifetime moment when otherwise optimistic souls cross over from the path of hope to the abyss of inevitable suicide.




It is none / not / nothing of any Base U-R Belong To Us kind of shenanigans.

Shamed though I am to say it, I am pecked into the corner of confound by a blackbird.


Again, A.

A blackbird.

Investigative flappy birdy inquisitors mass, cry “which a blackbird? Which a blackbird proclaimethest ye about?
Oh, to answer with a hearty bellow of, “that f*cking black one, you dimwits — the one tugging the worm from the hitherto undiscovered remains of some poor, hapless housewife buried in what was to become my garden in 1953!”

Or again, “my trained familiar, Zanzibar, for whom no mortal secret is secret and no TV remote control immune to being buggered up by dint of peck or faeces or wild avian sex romp.”

Which blackbird is this? That visits me daily? Friendlyly a-peck and with tail feathers a-bobbin’ like the tail of some overenthusiastic terrier reared on UberChum?

Is it A blackbird? My special,friendly blackbird? Whose tail feather motion I may dream of retraining in some Strictly Come Dancing Meets Epitome Of Michael Gambon’s Eerie Ruthlessness kind of way?

Or is it two or more individual blackbirds? Hopping about between the foxgloves and the dreamcatcher blasters like a posse of Whirl-confounding evolutionary miscreants dressed as a singular saint?


But he/she/them/they KEEPS ON HOPPING ABOUT MY GARDEN, tweeting like some tweety kind of crazy thing.

How many blackbirds are fooling me into believing my garden plays host to A friendly blackbird?





jjdebenedictis said...

I hear they're great, baked in a pie.

Very funny post, Whirl! :D

Old Kitty said...

You sure they're not crows?

Take care

Peter Dudley said...

Now I don't feel so much like I'm wasting my life.

Mother (Re)produces. said...


Whirlochre said...

It/they has/have been back today.

It's driving me crazy.

fairyhedgehog said...

And breathe...

Whirlochre said...


Miss Scarlet said...

Oh. Maybe they/it are/is a chicken in fancy dress.

Whirlochre said...

Or maybe you/is/are/it Miss Scarlet in disguise.

Mother (Re)produces. said...

Or airbrush?
Like the sheep farmers do to tell the flocks apart?