Thursday, February 5, 2009

“No shit, Sherlock!” is an expression I believe hails from the grimier alleyways of London, where wordsmiths deftly transmute even the foulest vulgarities into palatable sayings by sheer dint of accent. You may have heard of it. It is a quaint phrase, very likely apocryphal to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s famous works, but it has a special, almost literal resonance tonight. Why? Because I may finally be able to close the casebook on why birds land directly on my car to poop.

There are moments when justice seizes evidence to cast a light into the dark, unraveling machinations most fowl before a jury of peers. This was not one of those moments. Instead, as I was walking back from my mailbox, thumbing through bills and yet another terrifyingly glossy church advertisement, the answer dawned on me. The pieces were always there, laid out so obviously: the birds. The caca. The time of day. The car. I had only to assemble them.

My car is essentially the warmest toilet within flapping distance. There, I said it. Conveniently located next to the woods, its outhouse appeal is enhanced by a black paint job, which assures it will absorb far more sunlight than its owner ever will. And here I thought those birds were just being racist. Now, I am pressed with a need for solutions, and already the gears are churning. The plan I have formulated involves superglue, specifically a generous layer applied to the car exterior, and it will require patience. The preparation must be thorough. The timing, flawless. Do you ever wonder why hood ornaments went out of style? Neither do I. Neither do I.