Thursday March 5th, 2015

The exercise:

Write about: the parrot.

Safe and sound with friends in Vancouver tonight. The drive went fairly well, with only a couple of extra stops to get Max out of his car seat.

I've already fallen asleep once on the couch, so I should get this done before the lights go out again.


I feel as though I must admit something at long last. It is a weight that I've carried with me for far too many years. It is time, I say, to lighten the load.

So here it is: I do not understand these people.

Not one bit.

They drink and curse and are always brandishing their pointy weapons. Their hygiene leaves a lot to be desired. If they're awake, they're looking for a fight. They have an unhealthy obsession with treasure. Don't get me wrong on that last one - gold and jewels and all that are great, truly. But with these guys it's nearly all they think about!

That doesn't seem healthy.

And, I mean honestly, what is with this insistence that their leader have a parrot on his shoulder at all times? Why? And why must they dress me up like them?

Which just leads to another question, doesn't it?

Which one of these foul beasts sewed my tiny bandana and eye patch? And didn't he know that both of my eyes work just fine, thank you very much?


Greg said...

Aww, I keep waiting for one of these road-trips to turn interesting and your post to start: "So we're in Vegas and neither Kat nor myself are quite sure how we got here. The last thing I remember for certain was Kat saying, 'I knew we shoulda made that left turn at Albuquerque'..." And falling asleep on the couch and the lights going out would probably be much, much more interesting in Vegas :)
Aww, your poor parrot. He doesn't seem terribly impressed to be in a bunch of cut-throats with a gold-obsession, does he? Though his little bandanna and eyepatch sound rather entertaining! I can only hope that he's part of Captain Sandy Bottom's crew :)

The parrot
"Agatha dear, are you sure that the dogs aren't here?". Mabel looked anxiously around her; usually the chihuahuas had detected her within moments of her entering the house ("only forty-seven bedrooms," Lady Agatha Gracious had said dismissively. "Not at all like the Dubai residence.") and would have cornered her by now, growling and salivating like she was ducky jerky that just needed pacifying.
"They're at the vet's," said Lady Agatha. "They ate someone who disagreed with them."
"Pardon?" Mabel's voice was so faint it almost an echo of itself.
"They ate something that disagreed with them," said Lady Agatha impatiently. "Really Mabel, don't you ever listen?"
"Oh I do," said Mabel under her breath. "I so very do."
"This is the aviary," said Lady Agatha walking into an airy conservatory. "You'll be in here today?"
"I... what?" Mabel looked around, frowning. "This is just a social call, Agat– aaaaaargghgghg!"
"Agatha," said Lady Agatha. "Though I do wish you'd call me mother."
"Get it off!" screamed Mabel, beating at the parrot that had perched on her head. Blood ran from cuts in her scalp where its talon were digging in, matting her hair. "Oh God, it hurts!"
"That reminds me of when you were born," said Lady Agatha. "Fourteen minutes of agony."
"Get. It. Off. Me!"
The parrot shifted from side to side, unperturbed by the flapping hands and the screeching below it, steadily knotting Mabel's hair.
"Ah," said Lady Agatha with a tone of pleasure. "The little doggies are back!"

Anonymous said...

Marc, I absolutely adore your post today. I love the humor and the way you describe the pirates.

The Parrot:

Squawk. “Call me maybe.”
I shuddered as those dreaded words assaulted me ears. The entire drive home from work, all fifty seven grueling minutes, I had been switching from radio stations to find a brief respite from that annoying song. However did it become popular, anyway?
Squawk. “Call me maybe.”
I clenched my jaw, as I threw my keys rather forcefully into the glass dish near the door of our apartment. That damned bird always had something smart to say whenever I got home. If Georgia wasn’t the love of my life and didn’t have a strange connection with that thing, I’d have tried roasted parrot for dinner years ago.
Thinking of my beautiful Amazonian girlfriend and how happy she would be that I got off work early, I called out her name. The only response was the stupid bird telling me to call him maybe.
“Georgia? Where are you?” I called, looking into the different rooms for her as I systematically went through the apartment. “And why is your stupid parrot singing that stupid song?”
Squawk. “Call me maybe.” Squawk.
“Shut up!” I shouted at it.
I glanced in the kitchen and tried to stop the laughter bubbling inside me. There, in front of the microwave, was Georgia. She was clad in one of my old grey wife-beaters and her baby blue bikini underwear. That spot of blue was bouncing to and fro, a pathetic attempt at “twirking,” while she thoroughly cleaned the glass door with Windex. I heard her off-key voice belt out those deplorable lyrics before she turned around, still dancing. Seeing me watching, she did another interesting dance move involving a two-foot jump into the air, a yelp, and the releasing of the washcloth from her hand. A crimson red bloomed across her cheeks, over the bridge of her nose, and started invading her face, charging head on towards her blonde bangs.
I thought I could forgive that bird just his once.

Marc said...

Greg - heh, I shall attempt to end up in Vegas on the way home, if that will make you happy.

Hmm, he does rather sound like a parrot that would be well suited to the world of Captain Bottoms, doesn't he?

Lady Agatha is... quite the character. I enjoyed the brief reference to the birth of her daughter :)

Ivybennet - thanks :D

Haha, that was a very satisfying ending to your tale. I was worried for a bit there that it was going somewhere... less pleasant.