Dyed Pigeons, Glizzy Dogs & An Illicit Paddle Boat
Yup, it's summer weirdness time. (Muse #78)
Summer can be a hot mess of irrational choices and catastrophically poor judgment. For your consideration:
Exhibit A. It’s a ... pigeon!
An expecting couple in Queen Creek, Arizona, thought it wasn’t enough to just reveal the gender of their unborn baby with a cake, balloons, or a poster-sized sonogram.
So they went to the Sacred Dove Release company, known for adding a touching moment to weddings and funerals, to see if they’d colorize a bird for their big reveal.
No, they wouldn’t dye their precious doves, but were happy to go ahead with plan B: coat a pair of pigeons blue, and on the day of the event, release them to the delight of the couple’s partygoers.
The reveal went flawlessly. But, turns out, local conservationists were pretty upset about it. And they weren’t the only ones. How do I know?
I consulted one Oswald Flutty, a self-proclaimed Pigeon Whisperer, to find out. Some highlights:
Why he became a Pigeon Whisperer: “Proctology didn’t pan out. Flying rats turn me on. Except seagulls. They’re scum. Swoop and steal wieners from little kids at Disney World. Pigeons? I understand them. They understand me.”
Who hires him, besides people like me: “Old ladies. Like ones who feed the birds gluten-free bread. They wonder: why won’t they eat it?”
The most interesting thing a pigeon has told him: “They don’t poop when flying. Could aim droppings, if they wanted to.” And why don’t they want to? “Keeps people guessing. Pigeons like that.”
What the blue-dyed pigeons thought of the gender reveal: “Thought it was bullcrap. Pissed off. Blue dye won’t wash off. Say they’re ‘marked birds’ now. I told ‘em, fake being bluebirds. ‘Become a boujeeebird? No way. No way,’ one said.”
“Date night’s gonna suck forever,’ said the other blue pidge.” I asked why. “Know how hard it is to tell a male pigeon from a female? Near impossible. Dyed blue? No chance. Gives ‘needing a wingman’ new meaning.”
What he recommended to comfort the birds: “Keep your chin up. Keep crappin’. Be glad you’re not being eaten. Most places. You were pets for thousands of years. You’ll be back. Find some single dudes on the West Side. Let them walk you on a leash.”
Exhibit B: Glizzy does it
Summer’s also the time when, on July 4th, gastro-athletes compete to see how many hot dogs they can thrust into their face in 10 minutes without puking.
By contrast, spectators are challenged to watch it for 5 minutes without puking.
This year, Joey Chestnut won for the 18th time, but could only scarf down 66 hot dogs — well short of his record 76. “Must’ve been some GLP-1 powder in them dogs.”
Perhaps inspired by Mr. Chestnut and caught up in Glizzymania, hot dog-eating contests have been popular nationwide this summer. (For those unaware, “glizzy” is street slang for either a gun or a hot dog. That both are deadly is probably not a coincidence.)
As a result, according to emergency-room statistics I have painstakingly invented, a record 17,233 cases of Sodiosporatic Wieneritis were reported on July 4th alone. It’s a condition in which dangerously high levels of sodium, beef-blender byproduct and cellulose casing combine to cause severe swelling, painful cramps and frequent abrupt “moos” similar to that alarming snort that awakes you from a hasty deep nap.
Next up: “Glizzy Nails.” All the rage this summer, people are painting their fingernails to look like hot dogs. (If I were to paint my nails, it would be pastrami on rye.)
And our collective obsession with tube meats doesn’t end there. This week a 65-foot-long hot dog sculpture returned to Times Square. Just in case anyone who views it hasn’t grasped its phallus, the frank includes periodic blasts of confetti from its tip every day at noon,
The peener, I mean, Weiner’s creators suggest that it is a satirical monument designed to evoke national reflection. Which can mean only one thing: our country is going to the dogs.
So, in summary, glizzy summer is going glazy, and we’re all fucked.
But don’t despair. There’s more summer weirdness to lift your spirits.
Exhibit C: The Not-So-Great Race
Join me at the beautiful Sun City retirement community’s Viewpoint Lake, where the highly anticipated Summer Paddle Battle took place on July 9th.
This rite of summer pits three teams in an epic paddle boat race spanning 1850 feet (roughly one-third of a mile). At a blazing velocity of approximately 12 feet per minute, the race has never been completed in less than 2 hours and 34 minutes.
Grand prize: free dinner buffet for two, preferred seating at all bingo games for a year, and, of course, bragging rights.
Two things happened this year to turn an otherwise fun, albeit dreadfully boring, event into a statewide scandal:
When Sam and Rose Bikovsky learned that they were adding Wagyu brisket to the buffet, they knew they had to do more than just train a little harder. Inspired by the e-bikes that nearly ran them over every day, they schemed to turn their boat into an e-boat by jerry-rigging a paddle-assist motor into their vessel.
With the temperature reaching 114 degrees that day, all three teams decided they needed to bring a flask of cold brandy to help them survive the heat.
The race started innocently enough. But in the scorching heat, two of the boats quickly turned to their toddies for relief, soon after which they started curiously pedaling in reverse.
Sensing an opportunity, the Bikovskys then turned on their paddle assist, creating a wake, which broke the explicit “no wakes allowed” clause of the community’s bylaws.
(Later on, Sam would confess that he thought “no wakes allowed” meant funeral services were prohibited.)
This caught the attention of the Mini Golf cashier and lake attendant, leading him to make a mad dash in his rowboat to pursue the offenders and, in so doing, collided with one of the paddle boats that couldn’t get out of the way fast enough.
Before long, three people were plunged into the lake, also violating the statute stating “strict regulations prohibit swimming, wading, or scuba diving.”
But it was when the lake started turning a curious yellow-green color that onlookers became truly stunned, as they knew the most important bylaw had been breached: “In an effort to prevent Golden Algae and Quagga Mussels, incoming watercraft, motors, and oars are to be clean and disinfected with a solution of one part bleach to ten parts water prior to being placed in the lake.”
You see, the Bikovsky boat’s paddle-assist was never properly sanitized, causing the water to soon fill with algae. And, no, there were no box-cutter gashes in the surface of the lake.
When the dust settled, the Bikovskys were put on eviction notice, and next year’s Summer Paddle Battle was pre-emptively canceled and replaced with a Summer Shuffleboard Spectacular.
(Okay, maybe this particular event could have happened.)
So what do pigeons, glizzys, and paddle boats have in common?
Absolutely nothing. And maybe that’s the point. Weirdos may be seasonal, but weirdness transcends seasonality.
In fall, people will dress up like Labubus. In winter, they’ll plunge naked into the ocean just to prove they're tougher than 99.9% of the rest of us. And by spring, they’ll feed their dog excessive amounts of beets and strawberries so that it’ll poop pink.
“It’s a girl!”
Thanks very much (not) for the disclaimer at the end. I thought for sure I was getting the straight scoop on an actual paddleboat race, the kind of reporting I might get from Wally Ballou.
Your mind is a fascinating place to visit ! Keep ‘em coming!🤪