I washed the cars today. Both of them. By hand.
Because it is April. And that is when The Birds arrive.
We have a spot in the he driveway that is under the overhang of a tree. The tree is WAY WAY up there, so you don't really see it or think about it. Until your car is covered with enough poop to make it look like it has been parked inside an aviary. For a month.
However, it actually happens within minutes of parking there. It's like The Birds hold their bowels all day, waiting for you to park and walk off so they can unleash a barage of excrement like napalm on Saigon.
But you can't really park anywhere else on that side of the driveway. Too far forward and you block the sidewalk. Too far back and you risk your car getting bashed by
So you park there and hope for the best.
(But your hope will be dashed by a ton of bird poop. Very shortly.)
So I washed both cars today.
And before I could get back around from the left side of the Mini Cooper, which I had just finished washing, to the right side, to dry it off, the right side had been shat upon again.
I'm considering taking up archery. Or poison-dart making. Or at least learning how to shoot small, sharp rocks through a straw. Because I swear if I see a bird sitting anywhere near the two cars that are huddled in terror over on the far side of the driveway, they are dead meat. The Birds, that is. Well, and the cars too, I guess. The Birds have deadly aim. And a steady diet of black berries and green slime, it appears.