Birds Fucking

Bird are fucking all over the place. All over Victoria Park. All over Hyde Park. All over Sydney. They’re white parrot type looking birds and they make a loud racket while they’re fucking. I haven’t been fucked enough to Wikipedia what kind of birds they are, and I’m not brash enough to ask Aussies on the street what the birds are called. I’m sure they hardly notice the noise if they’ve lived here for long enough. Birds fucking loudly, though, is an entirely new concept to me.

Llamas fucking is a lot different. I’ve often heard the sounds of llamas fucking. Homosexual llamas, actually. In my experience with witnessing homosexual llama activity, there is a dominate male llama and a subordinate, younger, smaller llama that gets fucked. By the way, llamas spit. Especially when one is trying to rape another one.

Imagine brown shag carpeting, a mass of brown shaggy dirty carpeting drunkenly galloping towards another dirty brown galloping piece of shit, spit flying, horns blaring, hormones raging, and one very erect llama penis. It ain’t a horsecock, but it’s unsettling. The shag carpeting races around the fields until the smaller one tires and gets violated.

Now imagine, if you’re ever so brave, that you’re sitting down to a nice cup of coffee at your family’s dinner table. It’s about 8am, and for some reason I’m awake, but I’m having pleasant conversation with my parents, and since it’s a pleasant spring afternoon, the windows are open. Before we can talk about the pleasant weather, the sounds of hell reverberate through our quaint little suburban home. This is what we get for living next to a small farm that keeps llamas. It’s a mini earthquake of pounding and foghorns and violent terrified spitting and pure llama sexual desire that no one should be subjected to in front of their parents.

Now theses birds aren’t quite as ferocious as the llamas, and I’m assuming these birds are mostly heterosexual, but when I’m sitting on a park bench reading Tropic of Cancer, I would rather the birds not fuck right above my heads. I was just beginning to understand why I had enjoyed the novel when I first read it—Henry Miller liberally uses the word cunt—but I even began to comprehend why Randomhouse named it one of the 100 best novels of the 20th century. It’s loose; it’s free; it’s optimistic. Why are we alive? We aren’t alive! It doesn’t matter! I am free to do what I please and I just don’t give a fuck.

But those birds just did not allow me to form any such an opinion while I was sitting on that park bench. I had to form those opinions back at the hotel room, free from fucking birds, free from nature. Those white parrot shaped tropical looking birds fucking and squawking above my head can go fuck themselves rather than each other; I’d prefer just a bit more peace and quiet, but I guess in Sydney at the end of February it’s bird love time. Spring is in the air even though we’re closer to fall in the Southern Hemisphere. All that I'm asking for is a quiet little robin that hops around looking for worms and bugs and seeds.