"Merde" is how you get away with saying "shit" in public but remaining respectable. The "Merde" book series probably would not had been so quickly stocked in windows were the titles "A Year in the Shit", "Shit, Actually", or "Dial S for Shit".
Today's post is about merde, because a oiseau almost popped on me yesterday. It wouldn't be the first time, but it would probably be the grossest time.
A long time ago in 1991, my brother went on a lucky streak and managed to win a trip for him and one parent to Toronto to participate in Wayne Gretzky's hockey camp. Yes, "the Great one" actually showed up and, more so, skated with everyone, had photo ops. It wasn't just a name - h was very involved. Also there was his father, Brett Hull, Denis Savard, and some Russian guy. Being it was 1991, I suspect a Russian in the NHL was still a novelty at that point. However, I was most impressed with John Candy being present for photographs and autographs at one session and was quite jealous Brother got to meet him. I'm not sure why he was there, I believe something about being co-owners of the Toronto Argonauts with Wane Gretzky. (Wikipedia just confirmed I am correct, they were indeed co-owners along with Bruce McNall, who I never heard of before.)
Mother and I also travelled to Toronto with Brother and Father. It was my first time on a plane and based on descriptions in the Baby-Sitters Club books I expected to fill the barf bag with puke, but I didn't. I have a stomach of steal for moving things, yet used to vomit when I got excited. Which is exactly what I did in Toronto on the first night. "Yay! I'm so excited to be in Toronto! So excited, in fact, that I just woke up and vomitted all over my mom and now she has to call housekeeper at 2:00am!! SO MUCH FUN! BIG CITY!!!"
Looking back, it was probably the water that made me puke all over the Maritimes and the eastern timezone.
One of the first days in Toronto we were walking around downtown in the sun. Being wonderful children, our parents treated Brother and I to overpriced ice cream. I don't actually remember if it was overpriced, but it probably was (Upper Canada and all). Some time later Brother started yelling, "A BIRD POOPED IN YOUR HAIR!!! A BIRD POOPED IN JENNIFER'S HAIR!"
I became very sad. Why would a bird poop in my hair? I had done nothing wrong.
"No," my parents insisted, "It isn't poop, it's just some of your ice cream. It must have gotten into your hair."
Brother still insisted it was bird crap, but I believed my parents. They would never lie to me, right?
Sigh.
They lied to me. And I don't think I found out until, oh, 2008.
"Parents, remember that time in Toronto when Jeff thought a bird shit in my hair but it was actually ice cream? Ha ha ha! Silly him."
"Yeah, that was bird shit. It was just easier to tell you it was ice cream."
......
Yup.
Poopisode number two was at the petting zoo in Iceland earlier this summer. My mum and I were walking towards the washroom and I felt something land in my hood. I knew it was bird crap. My mum looked in my hood and it was a round turd about the size of a chickpea.
Constipated bird, maybe?
The third potential incident occurred yesterday as I was biking on some paved trails in an area with some trees. (To say "wooded area" gives it way too much credit.) It was a bit breezier than expected that day. Why? Because the Weather Network insisted the winds were 11km/hr but upon getting home I verify with the Weather Office (Environment Canada) and the winds were actually 30 km/hr with gusts of 40km/hr. This wind turned out to be a blessing in disguise as when I biked by a tree a bird landed on a branch and decided to take a dump. Luckily there was a gust of wind at the same time and the poop blew like a streaky white rainbow arch over my head. Best gust of wind ever.
Also, the shirt I was wearing has quite a bare back. And I was on my roadbike so muchly hunched over. It would had been a disgusting mess.
Bless you wind, bless.
