This week I am staging my own version of Aaron Posner’s play “Stupid Fucking Bird,” a hilarious send-up of Anton Chekhov’s “The Sea Gull” in my driveway. It seems that one of the perpetually in-heat feral peacocks was attacking my Mustang which is parked in the driveway while I am boarding a friend’s car while they have work done on their house.
Peacocks may be beautiful to look at but they are stupid beyond repair. This horny bastard thinks his reflection in the side of my car is a rival, and therefore he attacks it. I caught the befeathered and bewildered Lothario in action, chased him off around the house with a broom (and got in my cardio for the day, thank you), and then dug out the cover that used to protect the Pontiac, hence the tribute to Mr. Goodwrench.
In the meantime I am researching recipes for roast peacock. How about on a bed of wild rice with a side of red cabbage?