My Poor Car

Today I shake my fist at the sky. Not because I'm angry at God or something. I'm pissed at the bird that has been pooping on my car. Twice this week.

I say a bird instead of birds, because there cannot be many birds in minnesota that can drop bombs like those that hit my car.



At first, I though someone hit my car with a can of paint. Nope. Bird poop.


I don't wash my car very often. It's red, so it's pretty difficult to see dirt on it. But you can probably see this from space, so I washed it.

The next day, more poop. But thiiiis time, the bird with the herculean butt decided to poop at the top of my door, so it would made a white streak down the side of my car.

I can't imagine what kind of bird that would do this, unless it was actually a harrier jet that landed on my Pontiac. And what could this thing have eaten? It would have had to have flown a looong ways from White Castle. Unless. It walked. Perhaps I should be shaking my fist down, too.

I hope you weren't eating.