Tuesday, February 7, 2012

The Envy of a Pigeon's Sex Life

Dear Mr. Prime Minister Cameron:

I write this letter with angst from the lush banks of Loggins Park here in London. Without a doubt, the prettiest park in all of Cambridge; my simple park, the park I can see from the terrace of my building. This is the place where good-natured families, open families with day jobs and cultured night lives live out their greatest weekend picnic fantasies. Those of Chaucer and Dickens and Coleridge and Wordsworth under elms and oaks afoot; where paved paths provide passage to enjoy stretches of smoothly sanded sediment save where cracks in said tracks are raised roots spared only for history placed them here far before us. I can’t help myself but to dance pitter patter along these arbors and greens the city has kept so well groomed. The fountain, a Fragonard inspiration rumored of our famous oiled canvas “The Meeting.” Oh what a fond act that always is for sneaky lovers finding ones embrace in a floral garden. Vines creeping up the marble cherubs’ legs like soft butterflies’ fluttering wings in ascent, or fingertips. That was far worth its restoration. It came out shining ship shape like a vintage Aston Martin after a good waxing. Where the eyelids used to be blackened, and the toes corroded mossy green, now defined linear chisels and toenails soo supple and precious, you want to suck on them like you would a baby’s. I recall personally seeking help in such a matter, if I dare care to remember such a pavement pounding task, littering doorways with green fliers, brandishing a microphone and wearing a sign painted “SAVE LOGGINS PARK.” I paced the entrance of my building, calling out to neighbors “rally a few pounds, you will reap leaps and bounds!” That statue has remained polished as the day it was created. If I might whisper so cordially to you, in hopes of this being our little secret, that condition’s not disregarding my Monday midnight touch-ups in my green Hunter wellies with a sheer emery cloth, lacquer spraycan and moist towellette; what our solitary night security watch, Benjamin, misses on his eve off, won’t hurt him, and statues after all can’t talk. How else would the restoration remain so restored? How na├»ve people could be….I didn’t see anyone else asking that young assistant what he was applying to the cherub’s bum when they first began the project. To be so truthful, I can’t believe these young mothers, so hip and hop and quick with their prams, none of them even inquired of the outrageously staunch smell and whether we as locals, or even these poor unknowing babies in their luxury carts who have become part of mommy’s workout regimen to look fit and sexy to their over-the-shoulder staring glaring cleavage-loving bosses, and yet there they are, babies, breathing it in like some daft construction worker huffing dust onto stubbled fresh lips. My senses are quite fickle. They, like some demonic devil woman I accidentally cut in the Starbucks line, take no hesitation in reminding me when I’m overstaying my welcome in the great outdoors. Itches like a bad case of the you know whats. In this case, it was in fact lacquer. Oh, but I do so love the park, and it’s wonderful inhabitants, even the flower children and their Frisbee tossing antics that take up the entire length of the field “we’ve designated” as an active zone. “We”, I say "we" my darling Cameron, for I mention the informal committee I head that oversees the rules of engagement within the park. A very hush hush informal gathering it is, we just passed amendments to the park guidelines regarding noise levels of participants within. Although it was a difficult proposition, not knowing when to call out a neighbor for their boisterous banter, of course because it could just be a biting chuckle, or a tear-jerking adulterous break-up, but we leave it in a similar discretionary realm as that of a citizens arrest; it should really feel like the right thing to do. And personally, I’ll love you for it, especially if I’m not there to do it myself. I always prefer a teammate, if not two. If I’m not explaining it right, the stipulations posed and passed can be found at City Hall. Just walk right on up those steep cement stairs, past those Idi Amin looking lions, god I deplore those beasts, pardon my swearing, but they really are African jungle lions that would eat a woman if famished, biting, then licking, digesting, and then licking again. I get the whole king of the animal kingdom thing. The all knowing, wise harbinger in control of your life’s puny life, or death at such a moment of interview. Might as well put a hippo there. Two hippos at the top of the stairs, after all, they kill more humans than any creature on the planet. Who knows, I digress. When you walk inside, you’ll find Claudia at the information booth. If it’s not Claudia, it’s probably Harriet. Harriet's pretty much worthless unless you’re asking for the loo. Between you and I, that damned diversity in the workplace initiative has taken away some tit jobs for those better accomplished, but what are you gonna do? Bugger off, I suggest….why bother harping on moot points. That Claudia though, a glorious young woman with too pristine an education for a front desk job, and I’d a figured by now she’d have worked her figure on up the ranks save for the simple scar from her birthed cleft palette. She’ll tell anyone that story over a cup of tea. All you need’s a fireplace, a nip of brandy, and she warms right up. She’ll steer you to the Parks and Recreation Department. All the bylines are in a green two-ring vertical binder with those cute, helpful little fold-over clasps that bend down to secure the pages. "We" safely protected it behind a large repro James Audubon color-rendering of wild birds in aisle A section 127. Take a look when you get a chance, another one of our little secrets.

I apologize for such ramble, although let’s admit, it was informative you’ll agree. It took a lot of time to get the park where it is today, and I value my participation and advocacy in such things. My reason for writing is something of an embarrassing tickle on my tush, a feather flicking Adam’s protruding apples if you will. I do hope it is resolved, however discreetly the killing of animals could be. Yes, that might sound blunt, and yes, it actually is quite blunt, but if I could just let you into the visuals I have stuck in my mind from such feverish strutting, and stopping, and bending, and clawing, and shaking, and ewwww my gracious, the damn visuals. They make me queasy, you do understand…I hope you understand. These shitting little bobbing tramping rats with wings, there are little kids in the park for Pete’s sake, and little Sally’s sake. How cute these young ones are, I don’t think it’s just anyone’s place, whether creature, man, woman or child, or piss-ant pigeon, to be procuring provocative meetings with adamant fluffed up suitors for such services that absolutely are fruitless and only seconds long. They must be fruitless, I’ve never seen small baby pigeons. Where are all the baby pigeons, pray tell, if these awful mud puddle suckers are constantly getting it in? Feathered frickin harlots they are, circling around my fountain like hookers in spaghetti-string panties flaunting their famished fannies knowing damn well that these men can’t control themselves. They’re men for crying out loud. It’s eat, sleep and romp without reason. These breath-holding chest-beaters, puffed proud of their stock perpetually clickety-flicking the heels of his female prize, tracking them all around the fountain for minutes. I've seen one ants-in-the-pants suitor slaving away at her every whim, begging, dipping, breathing, and tippy-toes, tippy-toes.....flying up to the lamppost, shitting, flying down to the slate tile, advancing and dancing, twirling and staring back at one another for nearly an hour! They’re modern day stalkers. Sex addicts without conscience; they’d be put in jail if it were up to me. The first recipients of restraining orders and the backslapping topic of celebration when court-ordered, found guilty and hung by crooked nails through their shit-eating beaks around Piccadilly Square. Round and round the circle you could go staring, up at a chandelier of shame, loose to swing like rubber chickens from a fishing pole. I apologize, my language is just ferocious. Where are my manners? But these women, my God, these raunchy two-legged daylight squatters.....have a little dignity for once won’t you. They open shop for several persistent predators a day. Hunkering down so these fat dumplings of burden can claw their way onto the female's back, and swing their pigeon-pelvis' right round to insert in her bottom. I’ve seen the damned eye open up for a deposit hundreds of times; freakish pink dumpsters of scorn, I swear. A shimmy and a shake, and some jealousy from onlookers typically flying over to break up the union, if you could even call it that, and off he goes. Brazen, satisfied, and over it, he just walks away and leaves her to stew in his soil, the filthy rat. I’ve had enough of this pornography of others in public. It gets my hypothetical knickers in a pickle. My suggestion is a nighttime mass execution on a Monday. I will bring plenty of garbage bags and drag them out like stuffed animals replenishing a Crane game. Like a street sweeper leaves a wet trail, I want a path of skidding feathers. No two-winged doo-dropping terrorists will land in my groomed strip after seeing the streak of scorn heading out toward the dumpsters. They’ll know full well why their brethren will have evacuated. They’ll be irked to ever stop again at a fountain so pristine, so delightfully promiscuous and innocent. Oh no no no, the only eyes that will open to daylight in Loggins Park are those of my neighbors, and mine at midnight, depending what day of the week it is.

-Cheers, Your Friendly Neighborhood Guardian

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