Jake Goldman Will Throw You Into A Volcano

A: This not a question easily answered by me, since I would never own an animal that doesn’t have a rectum. Do you think I can afford to have bird shit all over my stuff?  I have two HD televisions.  My headphones are made of carbonite.  I park my car in my living room.  I can’t have birds just flying everywhere, unaware of the fact that they’re just shitting on the things I own. But hey, don’t let me stop you from owning the bird of your dreams. You and your weird, pervert-dreams.  Let me turn this question over to my Uncle Greg who has owned eleven birds in his lifetime.  As a result, he has no fingers (falcons), so I will be typing everything he says.

What is this?  A what? What is it for?  A magazine?  I read an article that said  the magazine is dead.  Give me that spoon. It has soup on it.  Just put it in my mouth.  GMDFGGFHFDHRBMRLE.  God dammit.  Forget it.  What do you want to know?  Birds?  Who wants to own a bird?  Jane in Austin?  Jane Austen?  Texas?  I’m going to shit, you have to wipe me.  Ok, ok.  I’ll hold it.

Okay.  Jane?  Jane, should you own a bird?  Well, I don’t know.  What do you mean I’m a bird expert.  Holy shit, this crap is peeking out my asshole.  Alright, alright.  Jane, you should own a bird.  You’re lonely.  You’re lonely because you’re asking this question in the first place.  You’re asking it to a goddamn magazine, and as I’ve stated previously, the magazine is dead.  And here’s the thing, a bird will provide you with companionship.  Oh, sure, you’ll get a bird that can talk– like a cockatiel or a parakeet.  And you’ll teach it your name, you’ll rub its little head and feed it little peanuts and, for awhile, you’ll think you’ve found the meaning of life.  You’ll say “To hell with men! I’ve got you, Skeeter.”  And you better believe you’ll name the thing Skeeter.  They are always named Skeeter, Jane.  I’d just like to warn you though, Jane.  A bird won’t love you like you love bird.  Inevitably, one night, when you’re asleep, envisioning yours and Skeeter’s lives together: taking a cruise, checking out Dave Matthews Band, finally opening that Jurassic Park-themed diner you’ve been yammering on about for years, on that night you’ll open your eyes — and that’ll be the last time because PECK-PECK, JANE!  THERE GO YOUR IRISES – HEY, WHY ARE YOU TYPING IN CAPS – I CAN SEE THE TYPE-WRITER. I REALIZE I’M YELLING BUT THE ONLY REASON I’M YELLING IS BECAUSE I’M HOLDING IN A SHIT RIGHT NOW AND THIS IS THE ONLY WAY I CAN TALK BECAUSE I’M CLENCHING ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING THAT CAN BE CLENCHED IN A BODY. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? DO YOU? OH, FUCK. I’M SHITTING RIGHT NOW. AT THIS VERY MOMENT. RIGHT NOW. DON’T TYPE THAT – IT’S NOT GONNA BE TIMELY WHEN THESE PEOPLE READ THE MAGAZINE, EVEN  IF SOMEHOW, WHILE THEY’RE READING IT, I’M TAKING A SHIT BECAUSE IT’S NOT GONNA BE THIS SHIT, IT’S GONNA BE ANOTHER SHIT, SOMEWHERE ELSE, SO THE CONTEXT WILL BE WILDLY DIFFERENT SINCE MOST OF THE SHITS I TAKE ARE ACTUALLY PLEASANT. SERIOUSLY, IT’S CRAWLING DOWN MY LEG. I CAN’T UNBUCKLE MY PANTS. YOU NEED FINGERS FOR THAT AND YOU KNOW THIS. AND YOU’RE SITTING THERE TYPING. OH HOLY HELL YOU ARE BUYING ME SOME DOCKERS.

Well, Jane, I hope that answers your query and, you know, quite honestly you can go right to hell if it doesn’t.