Bodies and Birds

For lack of anything else on during that particular time slot, 5 PM, we have been watching an E channel presentation called "The 101 Hottest Celebrities Bodies." I know what you are all thinking, what's my number?, so I'll tell the truth and admit I didn't make the cut. But c'mon, neither did Wilford Brimley and he's hot, right? They said I had to have a six pack to qualify and my Guiness in the fridge didn't count. Tough graders. What are they looking for, Heineken? Anyway, the show is counting down to number one at about twenty hotties a day. Wait, let me amend that. Make it fifteen female hotties and five guys who do a lot of sit ups. We are now committed ( and in my case, as Yoda would say, committed he should be) to watching the next couple of nights to find out who is number one. Five clock, I should also point out, is Happy Hour here in Happy Land which means I am likely to be sipping something alcoholic while Pamela Anderson displays her implants and Matthew McConaheehee does crunches for the camera. I have added this as an after thought only because I want you to know my judgement was clouded when E in general became an option. Should this option persist after I've learned who has the hottest celebrity body, I'm thinking Hemlock will be my drink of choice. Meanwhile, I want to tell Haile Berry yes you have my support, so you can quit calling me everyday. Ever since that one crazy night, she just won't leave me alone.

Back in the day, by the way, hot didn't mean sexy, it meant sexually aroused. To get a girl hot was every teenaged boy's goal. You would never say, she's hot, but you might say she makes ME hot. This message was brought to you by Old Farts R Us. One stop shoping for virtually useless trivia.

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I don't think Andy ever meant to hurt the bird. Being the not particularly selective Romeo that he was, he probably just figured here was a golden opportunity. Hence his mad scramble with bird in mouth to the nearest bedroom. For my part, as I dashed in pursuit, it was pretty much Oh shit oh shit oh shit! I did make a nice head first slide across the - I can't remember, hardwood or tile, something slippery - floor, when I tried to snag the birdnapper before he made it under the bed. Just missed, so the Sportcenter highlight featured the dog going for extra bases and not me making the grab. My flopping and shouting did freak Andy though, and put him off his... game, so to speak. He dropped the bird and ran to daylight. (I know, I'm mixing my sports metaphors.) Free of the dog and any remaining bird sanity, Cyrano resembled the proverbial headless chicken. Catching him was impossible. But I am a wise man don't you know. I fell back on the wisom of the ancients and I channelled the Bird Whisperer. My calmness became truly zen like and Cyrano responded in kind. When his last ruffled feather had returned to its normal place, I made my move. The very slow and deliberate move we had practised every day for weeks on end. I extended my bird flipping digit as carefully and with as little trembling as I could muster. Cyrano then made his move. He took one hop forward and latched onto my finger like a gator on a warthog. I won't say it hurt, because I'm a manly guy who watches E, but I will say that my finger was a gusher and it was my turn to squawk bloody hell. I knew if I tried to grab the bird with my free hand, he'd just find another spot to chomp and if I tried to shake him off I was likely to hurt him. What I did instead, was one of the two brave acts of my life. The other was facing up to the sixth grade bully, which just made her mad so she beat me up worse than usual. I walked as quickly as I could to the bird's cage and put my hand, bird aboard once more...more or less, inside and waited for him to let go. A thing he did, thankfully, almost at once when he realized he was home.

I closed the little door and headed for the bathroom to tend my finger. Andy, of course, boogied for the couch. Afterall, The mail was due.