PeaceBang

There Goes The Neighborhood

I’m not sure what’s going on with the birds, but the air-conditioning unit in my bedroom has become a rowdy bird bar with constant drunken bird brawls. What are they fighting over, I’d like to know? And why do they have to wake me and my cat up doing it?

Ermengarde and I hear them going at it at 4AM, then 5 AM, then 6 AM, screaming their heads off and ripping at feathers and we look at each other, totally baffled. We feel like camp counselors who got a really bad cabin of campers. “You guys– just GO BACK TO SLEEP, willya?”

I feel like the “concierge” in Mel Brook’s movie “The Producers,” who, when Bialystock and Bloom try to get into the tenament apartment to see Franz Liebchen, sticks her head out the window and pronounces — in the thickest Brooklyn accent imaginable — “I’m the concierge. My husband used to be the concierge, but he’s dead. Now I’m the concierge.” And when the two gents ask to see Liebchen, she responds, “Oh, the Kraut? He’s up on the roof with his boids. He keeps boids. Dirty, disgusting, filthy, lice-ridden boids. You used to be able to sit on the stoop, like a poy-son. Not any more, no sir. Boids. You catch my drift?”

“We get it, we get your drift, madam,” responds Bialystock.
To which she says, “I’m not a madam! I’m a concierge!”

Those boids are making me crazy. Stupid old dinosaur heads. Someone should take the car keys from all of them, and ground them too for good measure.