For the Birds
Not unlike wine aficionados or sexual deviants, birdwatchers live in a convoluted world—one that’s governed by pretension and riddled with jargon. This esoteric world is the construct of posturing elitists who aim to fend off the weekend-warrior dilettantes that are encroaching on their turf. The barrier to entry is illusory, however, and should be wholly disregarded (as the birding elite are a categorically feeble gaggle, capable of little more than hurling whispered insults and pine cones).
Actual admittance into the birding enclave requires little more than patience and a few choice sundries. To wit: binoculars; a flask (to fend off boredom); a Gameboy (ditto); an air horn (to alert fellow birders of a specimen); parachute pants (to carry aforementioned bric-à-brac); and finally, a net (should you take a liking to a particular bird).
The first rule of birdwatching is to make sure you don’t make the critical error of confusing a bat with a bird. Bats are virtually indistinguishable from prepubescent Ravens and other smallish black birds, like Blackbirds. Despite their evil coloring, black birds are mostly harmless—preferring to attack worms and rodents, or, on rare occasion, sleeping infants. Should you encounter a bat, just freeze—as these leather-clad sky-rats are wont to indulge in a Bacchanalian frenzy at the first sign of spilled blood or motion. In fact, their only redeemable quality is the fact that they don’t defecate. Instead, they excrete guano—a tangy Mayan delicacy.
While bats are indeed extremely dangerous, their occultic powers are only a thing of legend. Bats cannot turn into Draculas or goths. If you actually believed that, then here’s another news flash for you: That teenage werewolf point-guard was just Michael J. Fox in fake fur and a jockstrap. (However, those foreign wolf boy carnies are real—but, thankfully, they prefer cotton candy to human flesh, and they can be killed with regular led bullets.)
Should you have trouble telling black bird from a bat, just revert to this folkloric maxim: If it’s not in a cave, it won’t put you in the grave. (Our lawyers insist, however, that the bird flu pandemic has technically nullified this bit of folksy wisdom. But, for the record, this so-called bird flu theory comes from the same godless knob-twirlers who think we came from walking fish and monkey men. So believe what you will.)
While on a birdwatching excursion, you should understand that it’s highly unlikely you’ll encounter any talking tropical birds (or, parrots, as they’re known in academic circles.) Hollywood’s responsible for perpetuating the myth that parrots are wisecracking pirate wingmen, so to speak. Like most myths, however, this tall-tale is rooted in truth. During the pirate heyday (circa the Olden Days), pirates commonly plied their shoulder-birds with rum and “hull wine.” This resulted in chronic diarrhea of the mouth, and elsewhere. Mimicking their fowl-mouthed owners only solidified their notoriety. But parrots are not sentient beings. Like car show spokeswomen and Alaskan governors, they have no comprehension of the words they utter.
Birds, while severely retarded, do have a highly evolved sense of animal instinct. They’re acutely aware of their surroundings and potential predatory threats. Therefore, it’s important that you don’t allow your birdwatching to escalate into bird-stalking. This slippery slope can occur when fixated on a rare bird (or a sexy, human-sized bird, like a Flamingo.) Dive-bombing can often result.
A bird’s nervous system, on the other hand, is relatively primitive. This means their pain threshold is slightly higher than the average bi-ped—comparable to that of a functioning-alcoholic on a fistful of codeine. (Owls are the one exception, however, having a level of sensitivity (and spite) that’s on par with a bubble boy.) Some fringe birders actually exploit the birds’ marginal capacity for pain with BB guns. “No harm, no fowl,” so the mantra goes. These rogues are known as “two-pump chumps”—as two pumps of the gun generally inflicts the most severe amount of non-lethal carnage. Like the skiing/shooting dynamic of the Biathlon, this sport combines passive leisure with firearms. Unlike the Biathlon, however, this sport was conceived by impotent rage and liquor—as opposed to, say, Viking bloodlust and spandex.
Lastly, it’s important that you don’t get bogged down by all the idiosyncratic details of birding. Just have fun out there! Because it’s an irrefutable fact that birdwatching can cause such a degree of crippling boredom that not even high-grade narcotics or Jesus can absolve it.
Actual admittance into the birding enclave requires little more than patience and a few choice sundries. To wit: binoculars; a flask (to fend off boredom); a Gameboy (ditto); an air horn (to alert fellow birders of a specimen); parachute pants (to carry aforementioned bric-à-brac); and finally, a net (should you take a liking to a particular bird).
The first rule of birdwatching is to make sure you don’t make the critical error of confusing a bat with a bird. Bats are virtually indistinguishable from prepubescent Ravens and other smallish black birds, like Blackbirds. Despite their evil coloring, black birds are mostly harmless—preferring to attack worms and rodents, or, on rare occasion, sleeping infants. Should you encounter a bat, just freeze—as these leather-clad sky-rats are wont to indulge in a Bacchanalian frenzy at the first sign of spilled blood or motion. In fact, their only redeemable quality is the fact that they don’t defecate. Instead, they excrete guano—a tangy Mayan delicacy.
While bats are indeed extremely dangerous, their occultic powers are only a thing of legend. Bats cannot turn into Draculas or goths. If you actually believed that, then here’s another news flash for you: That teenage werewolf point-guard was just Michael J. Fox in fake fur and a jockstrap. (However, those foreign wolf boy carnies are real—but, thankfully, they prefer cotton candy to human flesh, and they can be killed with regular led bullets.)
Should you have trouble telling black bird from a bat, just revert to this folkloric maxim: If it’s not in a cave, it won’t put you in the grave. (Our lawyers insist, however, that the bird flu pandemic has technically nullified this bit of folksy wisdom. But, for the record, this so-called bird flu theory comes from the same godless knob-twirlers who think we came from walking fish and monkey men. So believe what you will.)
While on a birdwatching excursion, you should understand that it’s highly unlikely you’ll encounter any talking tropical birds (or, parrots, as they’re known in academic circles.) Hollywood’s responsible for perpetuating the myth that parrots are wisecracking pirate wingmen, so to speak. Like most myths, however, this tall-tale is rooted in truth. During the pirate heyday (circa the Olden Days), pirates commonly plied their shoulder-birds with rum and “hull wine.” This resulted in chronic diarrhea of the mouth, and elsewhere. Mimicking their fowl-mouthed owners only solidified their notoriety. But parrots are not sentient beings. Like car show spokeswomen and Alaskan governors, they have no comprehension of the words they utter.
Birds, while severely retarded, do have a highly evolved sense of animal instinct. They’re acutely aware of their surroundings and potential predatory threats. Therefore, it’s important that you don’t allow your birdwatching to escalate into bird-stalking. This slippery slope can occur when fixated on a rare bird (or a sexy, human-sized bird, like a Flamingo.) Dive-bombing can often result.
A bird’s nervous system, on the other hand, is relatively primitive. This means their pain threshold is slightly higher than the average bi-ped—comparable to that of a functioning-alcoholic on a fistful of codeine. (Owls are the one exception, however, having a level of sensitivity (and spite) that’s on par with a bubble boy.) Some fringe birders actually exploit the birds’ marginal capacity for pain with BB guns. “No harm, no fowl,” so the mantra goes. These rogues are known as “two-pump chumps”—as two pumps of the gun generally inflicts the most severe amount of non-lethal carnage. Like the skiing/shooting dynamic of the Biathlon, this sport combines passive leisure with firearms. Unlike the Biathlon, however, this sport was conceived by impotent rage and liquor—as opposed to, say, Viking bloodlust and spandex.
Lastly, it’s important that you don’t get bogged down by all the idiosyncratic details of birding. Just have fun out there! Because it’s an irrefutable fact that birdwatching can cause such a degree of crippling boredom that not even high-grade narcotics or Jesus can absolve it.
posted by Chris Elzinga at 2:32 PM
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