Don’t you eyeball me, you ding-dong robin!

I don’t know if it’s out of stupidity or some strange, wild nobility, but I’ve got to hand it to the robin red breast: under no circumstances will you see those cross-eyed gingers eating people food.  And it isn’t as though they couldn’t get away with it.  They can run faster than the starling, which crosses pavement in a stooped, arthritic manner which suggests a perpetual fear of hip injury; they can overpower sparrows, which have the attention span of a stale hamburger bun; and they can certainly out-fly those blasted pigeons, which lumber through air with the grace of a damaged B-52 bomber.  So they should have no trouble at all consuming their fair share of the half-eaten pizza mashed into the gutter in Adams Morgan on a Sunday morning.

Yet what do they do?  Continue reading “Don’t you eyeball me, you ding-dong robin!”

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