I’m sad about the Pens loss. So sad, in fact, that I ate for two straight hours after the final second ticked off the game clock. Half a jar of cookie butter. Cheese and crackers and processed meat slices. And then I eyed the cereal boxes. It wasn’t pretty. I woke up with a weird marriage of Cocoa Krispies and cracker dust in my hair.
So I’m going to ignore the loss and Bylsma’s likely departure (sob) and instead talk about pigeons. EFFING PIGEONS. MOTHERBLEEPING JERKASSWAD PIGEONS.
First, yesterday late morning in Market Square, it was a beautiful steamy sunny August day that happened to get lost and wind up in May all, “WHERE THE HELL AM I?! I think I took a wrong turn at July or something. I tried circling back but some yinzer told me to turn where Rax used to be.”
There I sat in the sun with Sally Wiggin, not far from a table full of beard-wearing Rangers. Sally and I were chatting about life while her cameraman set up for an interview, when a pigeon sauntered up to her, about a foot from her chair, probably wanting to tell her, “Hey, why are you hanging out with our Antichrist? Aren’t you better than that?”
Sally Wiggin spied the pigeon, and Sally Wiggin talked to the pigeon. She bent down and gave it baby talk.
And then she remembered who she was sitting with.
And she looked up at me.
And I was all …
And then she was like …
WE DON’T TALK IN BABY VOICES TO PIGEONS, SALLY WIGGIN!
I’m getting that on a shirt, a pillow, AND my gravestone.
Also, this happened:
And while we’re talking about pigeons, here’s the closing line of this hilarious letter to the editor at the Post-Gazette yesterday:
Perhaps the first place we can stop “feeding the pigeons” is with ourselves.
I will pay you the sum of ONE MILLION DOLLARS if you can explain what that means.
I think she was going for a “Be the change you want to see in the world” type of thing, but instead veered toward a “There are a lot of weeds in the garden of my mind” thing.
I hope Anna Smith of the North Side emails me so that I can email her back a link to the story of how PIGEON POOP BROUGHT DOWN THE BRIDGE IN MINNEAPOLIS.
Get at me.
P.S. Cocoa Krispie Hangover would be a great band name.