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Killer's Konfession
By Michael on 03/08/06 4:09am EST
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Upon fishing through waves of computer documents “backed up” (much like constipation's accretion of potential excretion) on some old CDs, I was forced to confront iniquitous demons of my past. For years I attempted to forget my dark history, but they've shown no signs of relent. So today, Internet, I will confide in you and hopefully rest my conscience.
Several years ago in my hometown a drinking bird went missing. Its body has never been found.
It was one of those perpetual drinking birds, my brother purchased it for me during his travels. I gave it the nickname "Chirp & Slurp", though it didn't technically do either of those things. C&S was a good friend in the beginning, the two of us would spend the evening hours drifting to sleep; myself rocking in my wooden chair, him rocking according to the laws of thermodynamical science.
But it didn't take long for tensions to build. Before I knew it, my bedside bird buddy made barren my bedside beverage. Now I am not an unreasonable man, but when I intentionally keep a glass of water next to my bed, I expect all household pets to keep out of it. Given that this was a first offence scenario, I told Chirp & Slurp to stop so as to let him off with a warning.
But he did not stop.
He kept dipping his fat fucking nose into my glass, seemingly gesturing for me to refill it for his further consumption. I'm sorry, no. Just... no. I don't take no guff from no bulbous-boned, top-hatted, tropical, teetering cockatoo parakeet motherfucker. Given this creature's skeletal fragility, I refrain from beating on his liquid-filled ass. That's right, I'm a non-violent person. I decide to solve the problem by isolating little C&S and placing him on my computer desk, a healthy distance from any cups, mugs, glasses, steins, tumblers, chalices, or goblets I might decide to keep on my end table.
So the relationship seems to work out alright from that point on. I keep to my drinks untampered, he keeps to his blank staring. But then, one day, we erupt into an argument after he undergoes some sort of revolting molting ritual and leaves his disgusting green tailfeather in the middle of my room. I'm not the maid, dammit. So I storm out of my room and slam the door, and that's when I hear the crash. I fly back into my room and spot what Chirp & Slurp must have thought to be the ultimate revenge. He leapt from his perch atop my PC tower, sacrificing his own health to shatter and spill gooey blue shit all over my keyboard.
This substance, I tell you, was a force with which to be reckoned. Instantly it began solidifying, its increasing viscosity the perfect countermeasure to my frantic Kleenex swipes. Now I had shredded tissue glued to my keyboard covered in slime that, though coagulated, spread like brushfire when in contact with human skin.
Confronted with an unknown chemical on my arms, I kept my priorities straight: I checked to see if the keyboard still worked. Gloving my blue-stained fingers with a new tissue, I turned on the monitor and opened Notepad. I pressed the "o" letter key, presumably to commence the phrase "oh shit", and the results did not inspire much hope:
"ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo..."
A minute and a half later, the "o" key popped back up to its original elevation. I realized that the encouraging shortage of sludge on the buttons' surfaces was misleading. The real problem began in the puddled gunk that had pooled beneath the keys, waiting for them to be pressed down so that they could be sucked into the toxic-blue, jelled, irreparable hell that dwelled within the unreachable inner realm of my computer input device. Quelle dommage.
C&S didn't stop smiling the entire time. I had quarantined him inside of a grocery bag, but I could feel his mocking self-satisfaction. Every attempted keystroke was a taunt he had carefully orchestrated to rile me. It should be no surprise that this undeniable electronic tragedy would serve as the motivation for my crime. You cannot deny. He was the instigator. He brought this upon himself.
So, yes, I killed Chirp & Slurp. He was already wounded, so what was I going to do? Taking him to any medical facilities would have generated bills I simply cannot afford. Plus he pissed me off. I don't take people who piss me off to the hospital. And, given my affinity for hitting things with baseball bats, the next course of actions seemed rather obvious to me.
Look, I'm not saying what I did was right. I'm not even saying it was justified. I'm just saying that given the circumstances, I was completely justified in killing that bird, and in the end it was ultimately the right thing to do.
I'm sorry, Chirp & Slurp. RIP
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