We’ve had a guest at our house for the past few weeks, a blindingly bright yellow parakeet with a taste for human flesh named Chicken. Any finger coming in range of Chicken’s cage is subjected to her furious Beak of Death attack. Hell hath no fury like a little tiny parakeet. Fortunately, my bass-playing calloused fingers are immune to her attacks and she just chews on them ferocioucly but to no avail. Chicken belongs to my roommate Scott, and is staying with us while his parents are on vacation. Of course, as Newton’s second law states: where there is a bird, there is bird poo, which brings me to the humorous bird poo-related anecdote that has been painfully obviously approaching since the beginning of the post. A few days ago we let Chicken out of her cage for a little while to fly around and have the chance to bite other things than just fingers. After flying around a bit, she landed on my head for just a second or so before being quickly and unceremoniously brushed aside. Not realizing that parakeets are easily capable of relieving themselves in under a second, I blithely went about my day and headed off to work. About an hour into my shift, my boss came up to where I was sitting and remarked, “Hey, there’s something in your hair here… It looks like poop.” And what do you know, it was poop. I went to work with bird poop in my hair. Boy do I hope Scott’s parents get back from vacation soon.