There’s this damn seagull flying around my head. More specifically, the seagull is circling the bread I have in my hand. My dogs drop everything they’re doing when their dog awareness formulates the prospect of food materializing. Jesus creates a miracle out of a few cans of tuna fish, or some stale Wonder bread, and goes on to tell this same couple thousand people, assuredly, that they weren’t really here for the Lord of All Creation, but more for the lunch that was getting passed around at the time.
Fuck you, seagull. Can I say that?
“Hey, seagull. What the fuck?”
How about that? Is that more appropriate? We’re all alive, we all eat and kiss the blarney stone, ok? I get it.
I tear off a piece and throw it for him and of course, he eats it.
Then he comes back for more. He’s not leaving now. He was thinking of leaving before, he’s never leaving now.
Is it important that I feed him?
He’s so persistent that he’s probably fat in seagull terms, all seagull doctor hidden away in seagull town telling him his seagull BMI is too high.
“Quit eating so much!” Dr. Seagull says.
“Fat chance,” says this guy, my new seagull. “Fat chance, we all eat, I bet you ate yourself, today,” says my seagull.
“Fuck you,” says the doctor. Then he’s sued to oblivion for being offensive. My seagull is paid restitution and he ends up at where ever I am that this is happening.
This is supposed to be about happiness.