Go ahead.

I’m hit! I never saw it coming either. It just dropped out of the sky like a Scud missile, except instead of causing mass destruction, it ruined my shirt. I’m talking, of course, about bird poop. If you’re new to the blog, I’ve decided to stray from the normal topics of Literature, Philosophy, Astrophysics and Do-It-Yourself Iron Smelting to talk about something juvenile and gross. Why? Because it’s hilarious. Also, because between myself and Wife, the Nailsbails Clan has been pooped on by birds a total of three times in the past week. That has to be some kind of record, right? Is this the kind of thing job recruiters look for when reviewing resumes? “Skills: Microsoft Word Spullchack, Restarting Computers, Being Pooped On By Birds.” Of course, none of my coworkers will want to stand near me outdoors because I’ll be known as The Bird Poop Man of Alcatraz. But that’s a small price to pay for the instantaneous injection of good luck I receive every time I’m hit from above. Plus, with the way things have been going, I’m bound to be on the receiving end of the rarest of miracles: The Indoor Bird Pooping. Like a comet, or Cat letting you pet him without eating your hand, it only happens once a century. But when it does, and your favorite shirt is ruined, sprint, don’t run to the nearest corner store and buy yourself a lottery ticket. Then, after you’ve wasted five dollars on a lottery ticket, go to the nearest casino and put your life savings on red. Once you are totally broke, borrow some money from your rich Aunt and invest heavily in bonds. In about fifty years, you should see modest returns on your investment. Also, get your shirt dry-cleaned. Seriously, it’s been fifty years. That’s just nasty.