The surly bird gets the works

I tell you, I have just about had it with these damn birds.

And I'm not talking about crows this time — in fact, Mr. Nero and his hoodlums haven't been around. (Though I have seen some of Don Croleone's button men loitering about; could it be they took ol' Nero on a one-way fishing trip?)

No, what I'm dealing with now is a foul-mouthed drunkard who's just begging for trouble. I've dealt with his kind before — one of those blue-hued pretty-boys with the mouth of a sailor, the manners of an adolescent hyena, and all the subtlety of a rectal fungus. He prances and struts around his tree, screaming the vilest obscenities and basically making a total ass of himself. Even the Big Rodent finds this guy offensive, and he has a stomach that tolerates possum crap.

Last year, one these vituperative blue cretins swaggered his way onto the lawn, no doubt showing off to his frat-boy buddies. After chanting a few moronic taunts, the idiot turned and wiggled his tail at me, laughing and snorting... I was picking his blue feathers out of my teeth for weeks, and the Man is still finding bits of carcass in the lawn.

So, another year, another incoming class of loudmouth boozers. You'd think they'd learn eventually, wouldn't you?

But apparently not. This morning, no sign of the belligerent lush except a couple scattered feathers — and two of Don Croleone's more seasoned Corva Nostra enforcers standing around looking smug. I think our blue friend may have shot off his mouth in the wrong neighborhood.