Musings From Mossberg #8

Bitch! Where you at?

Did you ever hang out on the back porch on a warm summer evening just to watch the sun go down?  You know, relaxed, chores put off, I mean done, hearing the train in the distance and feeling pretty damn good about things?  Well this isn’t one of those musings because every last time I get comfortable, some remarkably stupid douche bag seems to find a way to fuck things up.  And not anything specific either!  People have forgotten the fine art of minding their own business and keeping their fucking mouths shut about things that don’t concern them!  And each one of you knows one. Or more. I’m tired of it and people here know to not get in my business unless I ask.  And I do ask, because they’re my friends. True and real friends. Not the fakebook kind.

So, I was out last night doing what I just described, the heat wave had broke and I was enjoying the cooler weather and relative quiet. The hummingbirds were busy loading up on my special mixture of hummingbird crack because they’re due to fly south for the winter and need that energy boost. Anyway, I’m dozing off, sun has set, when not more than 50 feet away that fucking owl started up again. He was in a hell of a way too, from the sounds of it, because he was hooting using a bank of stadium amplifiers all pointed at me.  His call is rather unique, I call him Betty Boop.  He’s a trans owl apparently, because he goes “Whoooop. Whoooop. Boop Boopy doo!” I do everything in my power to piss him off too by answering, but not adding the ending properly so he fills it in like he’s saying, “It’s Boop boopy doo you stupid ignorant human fuck face!” And he waits to see if I got it right this time so I don’t answer.  He gets smoking pissed then and flies closer and unleashes his call of the wild.

I think he’s lonely actually, because the woodpeckers say he’s been on websites like “Great Horny Owls.com” and looking at owl condos in local trees.  But he’s in a pickle or he’s drunk again on that batch of birdseed liquor the possum cooked up last month. Anyway, he’s up there hooting his owl shit in his special owl speak and he wouldn’t stop.  Even the mole family complained to fish and game about the noise, but were evidently told to fuck off by a clever raccoon who was pranking them by imitating the officer’s voice by using some bark over the phone to disguise his voice.  I wouldn’t even know that but for the fact that the turtle had been down to the river stocking up for the winter and the blue herons were bitching about the raccoon always pulling some shit and messing up nesting season.  The same raccoon I shot in the ass with the BB gun for raiding my heirloom feeder and he tells the bear where there’s some great snacks and the bear beat the shit out of the entire thing forcing me to get a new one.  It’s an heirloom too.  It was handed down to me by an attentive Walmart associate.  But I digress.

Finally I had had enough of the owl sitting up there hooting for some deranged whore owl to come be his BFF.  EXCEPT it’s fall!  The bitches all went on a cruise and dumbass here didn’t get the memo.  So I stood up, and as loud as I could yell, I screeched out, “Shut the fuck up already!” There ain’t no owl trim around these entire woods! They went to Avian Only.com and they’re happy!  Silence.  It was so quiet you could hear Chelsea Clinton changing her oat bag from a mile away.  It was so quiet you could hear Elizabeth warrens skin wrinkle.  It was so quiet it was like the night Trump won before the hystrionics started.  It was even quieter than congress at gunpoint being asked what they’re doing to better the country.  I swear I heard the owl mumble a strained fuck you as he flew over my head continuing his quixotic quest for bitch owls that were long gone. Kinda felt sorry for him, but not really.  Fuck him and his overworked beak.  After he flew off of course the entire woods erupted in chatter.  All of the local residents who were hiding like punk bitches from the owl we’re now all out talking shit and looking over their shoulders to see for sure he wasn’t sitting on a branch getting ready to order dinner.

It was pathetic.  The possum says, “Yeah, that shrimp dick tranny bitch had better leave!”  The rabbits were standing there with their hats on backwards sporting the latest Ray Ban shades talking about how close they were to kicking that fuggin owl’s ass if he didn’t shut the fuck up.  The moles were squeaking from the dirt sayin the owl wasn’t shit and he’s lucky to escape.  The raccoons were strutting the fence line going all “That’s right! We own these woods! That ugly mother fucker escaped with his life because we let him. That’s right! We bad!” Even the sparrows were chirping micro fuck you’s and the woodpecker just shook his head and tried to put up with it.  So I thought of a nefarious plan.  They’ve been in my shit all summer. Calling me a lazy ass bitch for the weeds along the fence, criticizing my garden, but eating all of it regardless. They’d take perfect vegetable specimens that belonged in a botany museum and chew the fuck out of them, then point out with glee how shitty the garden looked.  That’s my woodland pals.  Not the queer cutie animals from Disney movies, oh fuck no.  These furry fucks are the MS-13 of the forest.  Punk bitches all and I was going to get a laugh at their expense.

They were all happily chatting shit about the owl and how bad they were when I cupped my hands and let out a perfect owl imitation. Perfect! Every inflection was spot on. It resonated across the river and reverberated off the hills.  It was a thing of beauty. Marlon Perkins would have cried.  Jim would have tried to pull his pants up.  National Geographic would have a documentary.  At any rate, when I did that, you could hear mounds of dirt flying and chunks of bark falling in the weeds as every last animal beat feet for safety.  All of them. The squirrels shit on a limb so hard that the redwing blackbird couldn’t get a grip and he flew off in disgust looking for a way to de-shit his feet.  Then quiet. Utter silence. It was hilarious. It worked. Who’s bad now you funny bunny trans ass holes?  So I did it again.  And again. I was laughing and hooting like a crazy man.  But I grew hoarse from it all, I sat back down in the swing chuckling to myself when I heard a noise on the roof behind me.

Nah, I said to myself, they’re all scared shitless. Then, in a quiet, yet excitedly anticipatory voice, the owl.  The fucking owl heard me from up the valley.  He was sitting on the satellite dish and he said quite earnestly: “Where the bitch at?”  And at that time I simply gave the evening over to him and went in the house.  I heard him for over an hour afterwards.  He was going on and on. “Bitch! Where you at?  I know you ass is here! I heard you on your sail fawn!  Where you at? Come out and let’s go clubbin’!  Bitch! Where you at ho?  You ain’t leavin’ until you give it up!  My name Clarence! Where you at?  I heard you my own self! Where you at??  Anybody seen the bitch?  C’mon. I know you playin’ me! Whey she at?”

  I fell asleep. He was gone this morning.  I hope.

Mossberg Out

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