It's taken 38 years of living in the war-zone for me to finally become a casualty. But it's not like I haven't done my bit against the enemy, and railed against those bleeding-heart types who preach peaceful co-existence. It's not as if I've just noticed the problem. Shoot every last one of the bastards, I said, but do they listen? And now look what's happened.
Yesterday, I got shat on by a pigeon.
It was loitering in a tree on Windsor Place. Judging by a forensic examination of the projectile residue I'd guess the perp was a Wood Pigeon, but don't think for a moment that I'm going to let those feral phuquers off the hook for that. I could have lived with having to wash my hair, but how did it get the front *and* back of my nice linen jacket?
Kill them all; and if any bunny-huggers get in the way, dip them in breadcrumbs and chain them up in St. Mark's Square. Enough, already. If they didn't have wings, we'd give out medals for shooting them. Mass extermination of urban rodents is positively encouraged - and yet, strangely, no rat ever shat on my head...