Holy Hitchcock Hell!
I've lived in my house for nearly 30 years and I've never seen nature attack this badly.
Three times--count 'em, three!--birds have done a fly-by over my house and car and let their bowels loose with a vengeance. My car looked like a Jackson Pollock painting on wheels. Or maybe my wife's favored painter pants, a hardware store badge of honor.
I don't get embarrassed often. But I couldn't even take my auto out to the car wash. Not in public. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I took a hose to the car. Didn't help. Next, I donned plastic gloves (hmm...kinda snug...smelled funny), grabbed a towel
(which I marked for non-washable; sorry, favorite rag!) and put on a ball-cap (I still have nightmares recalling when a bird pooped on my head in downtown Kansas City).
Man, the results were a mess. Still better than it was and at least presentable for public viewing.
Same thing happened two days later. Noooooo! And this time, the birds came back with a vengeance. Not only did my car look like a polka-dotted hybrid, but the entire front-side of our house was Dr. Seuss's worst nightmare: large hoopa-paloopa-sploopa splotches of bird crap.
Again the hose didn't work. These particular birds sported some fine intestinal fortitude. To my neighbors' amusement, I put on gloves and took the rag to the house. I grinned (more like grimaced), muttered, "heh, spring cleaning."
During this grotesque procedure, I also discovered I was allergic to bird poop. The first go-round I thought it was the sissy plastic gloves. This time I went hand nekkid and still had the same reaction. My hands turned raw and red.
Above, birds cawed and mocked me, laughing their hideous bird-song of hilarity.
In the dead of night, off I trawled to Fast Eddie's Car Wash ("Open 24-7, every day of the year, no holiday too lonely to get it clean!").
The next morning, my screams filled the house.
This time the damned birds meant business. As a frightening calling card, they left a dead squirrel inches from my car. Really. I couldn't figure out any other way to explain why the squirrel was frozen in a state of shock, eyes wide open and glaring at nuts of eternity. No sign of foul play. No indications of struggle. No blood. Just....horrible, final, sadistic, vengeful death.
So now, like a mad man, I'm holed up in my house. The few times I venture out, I run. Fully covered in a hazmat suit.
And the birds tweet on...
Let me drop a plug for my book, Peculiar County, here. No birds. But there is something mighty peculiar flying the skies...