Dear Hogwash Factory of Nantucket,
Any organization purporting to hold its yearly conferences in North Dakota—a patently fabricated place—will earn no validation of anti-avian legitimacy from me.
If you were actually the anonymous organization that coordinated these events, you'd know from your own article one of the principal dangers of pigeons is, according to "a new city report," their noisy coos. Imagine yourself sitting on your favourite veranda, sipping a pleasant glass of the valley's finest Diet Croak. As the sun sets behind the royal palm trees you hear a subtle movement in the nearby trees. Then it begins: A low, persistent Coo. Cooooo. COOOOOO!
"Bother! Birds? In MY TREES?!?" Terrible. Simply terrible.
An additional danger of pigeons is that no one can decide whether to eat them or not. Might not they be perfectly pleasant protein? Or does their tasty flesh hold heavy metals?
Worse, it is dangerous to not know how to cook our feathered friends. Braised and served minced in fresh tortellini or roasted to crispy perfection over a barbecue? Such a choice is dangerous for the masses, some of whom might emulate their literary hero. Ernest Hemingway is said to have resorted to "gently suffocating the pigeons underneath Bumby's pram in the Luxembourg gardens in order to feed his family."
Pigeons droppings and therefore the pigeons themselves are apparently vectors for disease; out of respect to these dinosaur descendants I'd observe the same criterion applies to cats, dogs and toddlers.
These birds even cause infographics to be commissioned, thereby endangering America's bountiful supply of ignorance.
As can be seen below, they've even tried to rebrand themselves as a therapeutic shampoo and conditioner replacement service. That's low, rock doves—you leave Herbal Essences' Hello Hydration out of your war on safety.
Yes, pigeons are awful. But frankly, the most dangerous thing about pigeons is their penchant for forming crime rings to steal ancient, magical relics.
This is the Sole-Cleaver—an ax so large and powerful, it can violently bisect a pair of black Jimmy Choo pumps in a single blow—permanently. Hoping to gain some international oomph, a small South American country once acquired this weapon, and with it aspirations of coercing fashion designers everywhere into submission. Unfortunately, such a weapon's arrival in the country could not be kept secret for long. The high-security warehouse holding it was raided one tense evening during the season finale of LOST. No locks were cut, no alarms were tripped—but the Sole-Cleaver was gone. Puzzled authorities could not understand how their razor wire-edged walls were so easily bypassed, until they found a calling card:
Analysts agreed the card had Rorshach-inspired design elements but oddly arrived at very different ideas as to what it portrayed. It was only a matter of time before they called in someone to clean up the mess.
I didn't need 100 hours to tell me who was responsible. I caught this bird pooping snooping around the property the evening I arrived.
He insisted he wasn't involved, but after a hefty payment of birdseed to grease his wings, he yielded a name. He told tales of a strange portal nearby that would beam me directly to the kingpin's lair.
The tip was good. I emerged to find a strange, convoluted place of concrete and steel thought to exist only in street cleaner legend: The Pigeon City.
A nearby mailbox assured me I was at the right place, the placard stating bluntly "EVIL PIGEON OVERLORD."
Simple. Descriptive. Beats Brynnleigh, I thought.
There were no doors entering the compound. It made sense—pigeons had no need for such mortal crutches. For a metropolis full of fowl, though, it was oddly quiet.
"Coo coo!" I yelled out. "Echo!" No response. And then—
"Who's there?" I called back.
"EVIL PIGEON OVERLORD."
I spun to address him. He perched coolly upon the ramparts, grazin' my shoulder with that eyeball of his.
"Hey! What the heck, man... er, bird. You've made a lot of people really angry."
"Oh, whoopsie," sighed the pigeon. "I'd hate to be considered a nuisance by humanity."
The negotiations weren't going well. Time to try a different tactic.
"Don't be bitter! We've got a lot in common. I mean, we've even donated to pigeons in London a bit, given you a lot of food."
"I'd completely forgotten your generosity. That's right, now I remember... how much did your contributions amount to—wasn't it tuppence a bag?"
"Alright, alright. You've got me there. Just give me the axe and I'll go."
"Give you the axe? I didn't know you were in my employ. But if you insist, I'm sure we can find a way to terminate you permanently," cackled the dove. He uttered a high-pitched COO! and at his behest a myriad of birds exploded from the dark orifices of the fortress.
"Pigeon thugs," chirped their leader above the tumult. "Blot him out."
I screamed then, a high, girlish wail even Paris Hilton would rush to disown. I scrabbled in my knapsack for a plan and instead closed my hand upon the familiar handle of my umbrella. I pulled it out as quickly as I could manage. Blot me out? I'm no meteorologist, but even a preschooler could read this weather. I had barely managed to get my bumbershoot open when it was met with a volley of reeking pigeon rain.
I gagged at the acrid stench and stumbled for cover. They wouldn't stop until I'd been painted to death with monochrome oblivion. If these criminals wouldn't spare a child—
—there would certainly be no quarter for me.
I dashed under a nearby bus stop, my umbrella and nose gaining momentary reprieve.
I couldn't fight them all. There were so many... I glanced at the corrugated metal of the stop above me. Even as I watched, it began to sag and buckle under the mounting weight of pigeon poop. Despite the deafening defecations, I could heard the Overlord begin to gloat.
"It is ironic that humanity has chosen the dove as a sign of peace..."
I looked around frantically, hopelessly for some weapon—
"for now that we have the Sole-Cleaver, there is nothing stopping us from bathing the world in war."
I noticed some lengths of bamboo and discarded construction cord on the ground. Wait! I had an idea. I just had to keep the birdbrain monologuing.
"You wouldn't even know where to begin," I jeered.
"Actually, I think we'll start with your hometown first. Oh, don't look so surprised," said the Overlord. His eyes glowed a murderous red. "We pigeons knew who you were before you donned the bag."
My hands worked furiously. I grabbed some discarded feathers and crammed them onto the end of the arrow nocked to my MacGyver-ed bow. There was no way I could win against all these pigeons, but I didn't need to. After all, a ravening pigeon army without an Evil Overlord is just another leaderless, incontinent flock of birds. I hesitated for a moment, then heard the corrugated shack groan dangerously above me.
Raising my bow and arrow, I inhaled a deep breath and jumped out into the lumpy rain. I opened my eyes just long enough to sight the now airborne Overlord gloating in the midst of the throng—
—and watched in disbelief my arrow found its treacherous mark. Booyah! Jungle 2 Jungled! My task was complete. I staggered beneath the metal awning as the leaderless flock above began to squawk in confusion and disperse. Bent over in exhaustion, I never thought to look up and return the roof's enthusiastic greeting as it high-fived my head.
"So, Agent Feroz, did you recover the Sole-Cleaver?"
"No. I checked everywhere. It wasn't in the city. I did find an inscription in their native tongue, though. It suggests they might have operatives in the Holy Land."
"A team is already on it. As for the ax—they still have it?"
"They're probably too scattered to use it effectively; if it does surface again, we'll be ready for them."
"Of course, Headitor. Of course."