Personal Giggle

I sit here and listen to Don Henley sing "This is the last worthless evening that you'll have to spend", and I'm immediately transported to my college days when I created my own lyrics to just this line of the song...

This is the last mirthless pigeon that you'll have to shoot.

That line, written by me, made me laugh out loud on a regular basis.
I always think of that line when I hear that song.
It makes me giggle, still.

Why is the pigeon mirthless?? And who is shooting pigeons? And why do they care if the pigeons are mirthless? And then I imagine a pigeon opening the door of his one bedroom apartment in the side of an old tree. He's wearing a bowler and his leather briefcase has corners that are well worn and scraped. He is not smiling. And even though his tough day at the office is over, he still can't find a little joy in coming home and being able to put his talons up. He lifelessly takes his hat off and tosses it towards the hat rack in the corner. The hat falls to the floor, missing it's mark by several feet, and the pigeon sighs in failure. He can fly but he can't get his hat to land on the rack. Cool pigeons can get their hats to land on the rack. Indiana Jones can get his hat to land on the rack. But not this pigeon. He is not a cool pigeon. He goes to the window to see if there is anything out there. Any hope at all. He sees the operational end of a double-barrelled shotgun, as it deafens him only for the smallest of moments. His window shatters and he is almost instantly reduced to a red mist of pigeon blood and homeless feathers, dangling in the air, recently detached from their host, then they fall to the floor of the apartment. Outside the apartment, a little boy starts to cry quiet tears of remorse, saddened that he has murdered this pigeon in the window of his tree-apartment. I come up to this little boy, a little boy I have never seen before nor do I know his first name. Nor his last name. Nor his parents. Nor do I know of the school he attends or anything about this strange little person other than the facts of his recent murderous rampage. I put a conciliatory arm around his slightly-sweaty tee-shirted shoulders, and I lean almost too close to his ear, as the music begins to waft through the fall afternoon, and I sing to him...

This is the last mirthless pigeon that you'll have to shoot.

He turns to meet my face, and smiles. And as we gaze into each other's eyes, the MTV viewing audience at home believes we might kiss each other. But instead, a gospel choir appears behind us, complete with break dancers who have Kid 'N' Play haircuts, and we dance and sing the breakdown section of Lionel Richie's "All Night Long (All Night)": "Com molita sed e mo ya, hey gombo gombo! Wi tu parti oh way oh, oh jumbo ya! Com molita sed e mo ya, hey gombo gombo!!" Maybe the shotgun fires randomly, wounding a choir member in his robed leg, and even though part or all of his leg gets blown from his body, he gives no indication of pain or of stopping the revelry. Because this is truly the last mirthless pigeon that you'll have to shoot. And that, that has made all the difference.

You're welcome.