One Must Draw the Line at Fat Pigeons

Tolerance and acceptance.
These are two words that summarize one of the huge social goals of our generation and while a lot of us strive for it, it’s no surprise that we’re not all quite there yet. Example of someone not quite there: Me. I love harmony, unity, kum ba yahs, and acceptance but I refuse to be open-minded in regard to one thing: FAT PIGEONS.
I hate them.

Each evening, when I cut through the park filled with homeless men near Vermont and K Street, I face an undesirable showdown with these porky pigeons. They are overstuffed, brimming with self-indulgence, and feel a sense of unnecessary entitlement regarding who has the right of way on the sidewalk. Most of them abide by the following belief: Pigeons don’t move out of the way for human beings…human beings move out of the way for pigeons.

Every day, I and many others, side step them and move out of THEIR way. These K street pigeons obviously haven’t looked at the food chain, which simply states: HUMANS TRUMP PORKY PIGEONS (and in the case of a nationwide chicken shortage, will shoot them and eat them).

It mystifies people that there is so much hunger in D.C. but here is the simple solution: these birds are eating EVERYTHING.
Seeing them try to fly is the worst part. They flap their wings as fast as possible and can barely hoist their portly bodies in the air. They fly low, presumably because they don’t have enough energy to gather enough momentum to lift themselves higher than a couple feet. After fruitlessly flapping for about two minutes, most of them stop, as if to say “Oh screw it!” and then go back to the ground for more food.

Their ancestors were respectable birds that perilously flew messages across the globe during World War I and II. They even won medals of honor for their bravery. And these pudgy descendants just waddle about gorging on food in public parks. Have they no self respect? What are their goals? Where is their purpose in life? Why aren't they pursuing lofty dreams of packing up and flying to California to make it big? It’s disconcerting.

I recently got in a right-of-way showdown with the fattest pigeon of all time—if Godzilla had a bird child this pigeon would be it.
The whole thing played out like an Animal Planet segment.
Who would win this face-off?
The intelligent, 5 foot 7 inch, advanced species with the red pashmina? Or the smaller, lard-filled winged species with monocular vision?
We both advanced wondering who was going to move.

The pigeon may have been on home turf but I felt I had the upper hand—I had 3 inch heels (ouch) and headphones on (my music would muffle out the painful caws of the pigeon being squashed to death by my boots).
The benches, the heckling homeless men, and other pigeons faded away. It was just me and Godzilla pigeon in that moment.
I made my approach.
Godzilla pigeon waddled on the spot.
I continued.
Godzilla pigeon blinked multiple times.
I was three steps away.
Godzilla pigeon ruffled a feather.
I determinedly continued my advance.
Godzilla held his ground.
My bluff was called and I quickly veered off the path.

I chickened out for two reasons:
a) The idea of feathers, gobs of wobbly cellulite, and cracked beak particles on my new shoes troubled me.
b) That freakin gargantuan bird looked like it would eat me if that was what it took to win.

So, Godzilla pigeon won the battle of the K Street Park.
And now, I defeatedly walk outside the park. Or boldly through it (when Godzilla's not there of course).


Photo credits go to: www.o-scar.com