Here's the poop on bird poop:

Yes, they do plan their drops! I know this because I was a victim of an obvious plot by a flock of teenage birds.

As a college student, I was always looking for new and exciting ways to study. Tiring of the bar scene, I turned to nature. Spreading out my king-size sheet (white, like your listener's car) in the grass near my apartment, I was soon engrossed in my basic automotive textbook (where were you guys in those days??) and fell asleep; face up to the blazing summer sun.

As I drifted lazily to consciousness, the drone of bumblebees, distant traffic, and the light twittering of birds added to the ambience of my little nap. I slowly woke to the pleasant sound of birds flying overhead, and then the sudden wet, slimy, splat on my navel.

The flock landed on a tree a short distance away and began laughing hysterically. I suspected at that time, but didn't really have proof, that the poopetrator was crowing about his marksmanship to all his admiring twits.

The following afternoon, I watched the flocking birds from my balcony for a while before going down. They had a definite pattern, flying back and forth between two large trees every five minutes or so.

This time, I put my sheet in a place WELL out of the flight pattern, and returned to my deep studying. A cold chill ran down my spine as I realized I was dreaming I was Tippi Hedren....and than the connection kicked in, and my brain struggled to get my body to safety--but no, no!....it was as if conspiring roots were holding me to the earth....and then the twittering started, getting louder and louder until I felt the vibration of a million beating wings stampeding and then breaking OUT of the flight pattern and I gasped and struggled even more as I waited, horrified, knowing the inevitable was drawing near....I closed my eyes, stifled my screams behind a clamped mouth, and groaned as a drop the size of Toledo squished dead-center on my forehead. Even I was stunned by this display of deliberate marksmanship, and was only able to move when once again, the crowing of a triumphant tufted titmouse shattered the peacefulness of the pastoral afternoon.

I can't imagine better proof than this.

Jan Morrison

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