This morning I awoke from my slumber, such as it was, and unloaded the dishwasher. The dishes were still quite warm. Is there a more certain indicator that a day is going to suck?
Figuring there was not, I cut a cigar and went outside to soak in the hot-tub and contemplate my lot. Just as I was considering whether Microsoft would take five years to collapse or ten, a majestic bald eagle soared twenty feet over my head.
"Please don't shit on m—"
My eyes followed the parabolic arc of the bird poo. It was a John-seeking missile. I flinched and protected my head, bird poo on my arms being marginally preferable to bird poo on my head and shoulders. Instead, the projectile plunked in front of me, right in the middle of the tub. I couldn't help but admire the accuracy.
And thus did my contemplations shift: is eagle poo missing you but landing in your hot-tub good news—or bad?