The Birds


I used to think Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’ was a romantic comedy about a group of female friends in the Sex and the City vein. I erred sirs, I erred real bad. I have subsequently discovered that it’s actually about a demented redneck who is obsessed with a puffin. Check this out:

That's a nice crow Hitch, but it ain't no puffin.

Hey buddies. Let me tell you about m’Puffin. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me, no kidding. He’s got a proud feathered chest that swells out so sweet. People talk about Marilyn Monroe’s chest or Jordan’s chest, but they ain’t gots nothing next to m’Puffin. Sure, a Puffin’s chest ain’t everyone’s bag. But, I swears, it’s smooth and graceful and sleek, like a Ferrari’s hood. Sometimes, I looks up into the sky, where God the Cloud-Master lives. Then, all of a sudden, m’Puffin goes whizzing past and his shiny Puffin chest winks out benediction to all of the pathetic losers below, such as me, and I scream with happiness.

But, fuck, buddies, what about his beak! If God has a beak, I reckons it looks something like m’Puffin’s beak. You could imagine ‘Let there be light’ coming out of it, I’m telling you. You could imagine the Word coming out of it, get me? I once saw m’Puffin crack open ten snails with that beak, and those sorry snails screamed like Chinese peasants in the vice-like grip of an ancient dragon. KEEE-RRUNNNCCHH. That’s what it sounded like. You should have heard it. What a beak!

I used to be a real sap. I wore dungarees with the ass-pouch hanging down to my thighs and I had halitosis real bad. Everyone laughed at me and called me ‘Dogpants Brown’. My name’s not even Brown. It’s Winslow Porkwind. But still, they called me Dogpants Brown. I couldn’t even get my mother to spend time with me. ‘Dogpants’, she used to say, ‘I cannot believe such a deformed assemblage of broken atoms ever issued from my womb’, referring, of course, to me, her son. But then I gots myself a Puffin. Since then, everyone has given me respect.

Why, last week, three women gave me their phone numbers. ‘Call me’ they said ‘and let’s do lunch. But be sure to bring that Puffin’. I know they only want me for m’Puffin. But they ain’t getting their claws on him. I’m keeping m’Puffin all to myself. It’s jus’ me and my Puffin, buddies, jus’ me and m’lil’ ol’ Puffin.

If anyone tried to take m’Puffin from me I think I’d whack ’em with pa’s greasy skillet then drown ‘em in the creek in an ol’ swine sack. Yeah. That’s what I’d do. Drown ’em. Yeah.


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4 Responses to “The Birds”

  1. spicyeggnog Says:

    You forgot the tag Beak Chique beakface. Anyway, I’m a toucan man, it truly has a man’s beak fruit loop.

  2. johnlebaptiste Says:

    “a man’s beak fruit loop”.

    What is that? Some kind of cereal?

    My beak chic days are over. Beaks haven’t been chic since the dear-departed Alexander MacQueen trussed out Claudia Schiffer like a fat penguin then slid her on her belly up the Milan catwalk. You can’t follow that.

  3. oldrope Says:

    I’ve got a bird. Phwoar!!! And so forth. I’ve always been partial to a cheeky starling, so long as she lets me rustle her feathers. You can keep your fancy peacocks Baptiste. I’m all about beak mystique!

  4. johnlebaptiste Says:

    There is little mystique in running around in pet shops shouting “Wurrrggghh I’d do that” at all of the budgies and canaries. Yes, I read all about it in the Argie Telegraph.

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