Like storm troopers rampaging through the streets of 1938 Berlin, the nation runs for cover from the financial firestorm. Nothing it appears is immune from the withering recession that threatens to engulf us, not even it seems, the poor old vulture.
Running for just the second weekend since I mangled my left ankle into something a leper would be proud of, I noticed groups of dejected vultures just standing around idle. No foraging, no angry stand offs with other beady eyed opponents, no talon ripping at a foul smelling carcass of Daisy the Cocker Spaniel or the ferret that fortunately escaped the clutches of that strange man across the street. Nothing! Just bunches of vultures lazily kicking back looking like they’ve just had amazing sex and about to light up a Camel.
Their appearance puzzled me. This is not normal behavior, I pondered, easing into the third mile. What are they waiting for? This can be a busy road, and I suppose, a decent supply of a buzzard’s epicurean delights can normally be had strewn down the center or along the edges near the golf course. Then I froze “perhaps these crafty bastards are loping around looking nonchalant knowing full well a partly wounded fool was gamely making his way across the Savannah Plains trying to get home before nightfall. Keenly observing, like good boxing coaches, their opponents early signs of trouble; wheezing, hunched shoulders and left leg dragging pathetically behind.
I felt for my mace, CRAP! I’d left it at home. Quickly I reasoned, at least I have my Road ID. Suddenly I froze “What friggin use is a road ID if these shifty eyed ravenous beasts feel like gorging on my flesh, you IDIOT!!” “Where the hell is animal control or a Uzi nine millimeter when you need one!” I visualise mowing them down with a swift burst of grapeshot “a-a-a-a-a, take that you miserable bastards!” and then defiantly telling the World Wildlife Fund to kiss my ass.
So I quickened my pace, cautiously eyeing my tormentors. Suddenly it came to me. Banks are broke, real estate has gone down the tubes and construction has dried up. No vast tracts of land are being cleared, and therefore, small rodents are not being chased out of their natural habitat to be nailed by a passing semi. No ROADKILL!! The poor old buzzards are feeling the pinch!
Well there’s still hope for them. Today I heard some French bloke in New York who became ensnared in the Maduff ponzi nightmare and lost $1.4B of his clients money has done himself in. Now I hate to lose money – my money that is - but he lost somebody else’s. Why somebody hasn’t hunted this Maduff character down, hung him by his toenails and nailed his head to the floor is beyond me. And to heap further misfortune on this tragic character in New York, he was despised by his parents, or it appears so, because who else names their child Reny-Thierry Magon De La Villehuchet unless they hate them?
It’s a wonder, that carrying the shameful burden of being French with such a ridiculous name for so long he never lobbed himself off a cliff years ago.
Did you know a group of vultures is called a venue, and when circling in the air, a kettle (no neither did I).
Like storm troopers rampaging through the streets of 1938 Berlin, the nation runs for cover from the financial firestorm. Nothing it appears is immune from the withering recession that threatens to engulf us, not even it seems, the poor old vulture.
Running for just the second weekend since I mangled my left ankle into something a leper would be proud of, I noticed groups of dejected vultures just standing around idle. No foraging, no angry stand offs with other beady eyed opponents, no talon ripping at a foul smelling carcass of Daisy the Cocker Spaniel or the ferret that fortunately escaped the clutches of that strange man across the street. Nothing! Just bunches of vultures lazily kicking back looking like they’ve just had amazing sex and about to light up a Camel.
Their appearance puzzled me. This is not normal behavior, I pondered, easing into the third mile. What are they waiting for? This can be a busy road, and I suppose, a decent supply of a buzzard’s epicurean delights can normally be had strewn down the center or along the edges near the golf course. Then I froze “perhaps these crafty bastards are loping around looking nonchalant knowing full well a partly wounded fool was gamely making his way across the Savannah Plains trying to get home before nightfall. Keenly observing, like good boxing coaches, their opponents early signs of trouble; wheezing, hunched shoulders and left leg dragging pathetically behind.
I felt for my mace, CRAP! I’d left it at home. Quickly I reasoned, at least I have my Road ID. Suddenly I froze “What friggin use is a road ID if these shifty eyed ravenous beasts feel like gorging on my flesh, you IDIOT!!” “Where the hell is animal control or a Uzi nine millimeter when you need one!” I visualise mowing them down with a swift burst of grapeshot “a-a-a-a-a, take that you miserable bastards!” and then defiantly telling the World Wildlife Fund to kiss my ass.
So I quickened my pace, cautiously eyeing my tormentors. Suddenly it came to me. Banks are broke, real estate has gone down the tubes and construction has dried up. No vast tracts of land are being cleared, and therefore, small rodents are not being chased out of their natural habitat to be nailed by a passing semi. No ROADKILL!! The poor old buzzards are feeling the pinch!
Well there’s still hope for them. Today I heard some French bloke in New York who became ensnared in the Maduff ponzi nightmare and lost $1.4B of his clients money has done himself in. Now I hate to lose money – my money that is - but he lost somebody else’s. Why somebody hasn’t hunted this Maduff character down, hung him by his toenails and nailed his head to the floor is beyond me. And to heap further misfortune on this tragic character in New York, he was despised by his parents, or it appears so, because who else names their child Reny-Thierry Magon De La Villehuchet unless they hate them?
It’s a wonder, that carrying the shameful burden of being French with such a ridiculous name for so long he never lobbed himself off a cliff years ago.
Did you know a group of vultures is called a venue, and when circling in the air, a kettle (no neither did I).