The shitty bastards

Max and I were lying in bed yesterday morning, arguing over whose turn it was to make breakfast. I was thinking I should probably do it anyway, if I wanted a decent cup of coffee (his usual offering is on the stingy side, as in: you can count the grains in the cafetiere...). Besides, I didn't like the look of his fingernails: strangely green and crusty (bogies??). Then I remembered him in the garden the previous evening, scraping the last of the green paint out of an old tin, painting the bird table.

One raised eyebrow later (as we often communicate without words, just like that...) and he stuck his head out of the bedroom window. "Bloody, bloody pigeons! Bastards! Shitty, shitty bastards!". I reckoned it was worth investigating...

The shitty bastards left a thank-you note: a big white splat against the fresh green, winking up at Max: "Oi, mate, any more of that green paint left?". Dejected, Max wasn't getting up any time soon. "One of them must have seen there was no food and left me his opinion... shitty, shitty bastard!". At this point we heard urgent cooing below us: "And the shitter's harassing me now!" I thought he was probably leaving him another opinion (the paint was so old it went nuclear, maybe?) but kept my mouth shut.

There's nothing like a good, nuclear-strength coffee first thing in the morning...

The bird table is bright red now. No more old tins in the shed. No more pigeons?