The
seagulls in Fed Square are beyond ruthless, they wander the open
square in packs searching for anyone with food, and when they find
them they encircle the unwitting victim, who usually finds their
approach cute and humorous. They cannot be deterred.
One day last week during one of my ever-more-frequently pointless trips to Fed Square (my tour company is failing so I usually go to the square and wait for twenty minutes for no one to show up, and then leave) I was accosted by a group of these flying rats. I was finishing the first of two baguettes I had bought for my breakfast (Metro Baguette, corner of Elizabeth and Flinders, $5, ridiculous) and was about to start on the second. As soon as I'd arrived in my usual waiting place I caught the attention of these thugs of the sky, and about ten or twelve of them drew up around me, waiting for crumbs to spill. I'm not a charity service, nor do I support the special brand of insidious violence these animals perpetrate, so I made sure to spill nothing. Not a crumb. Not a sliver of salad.
This morning I saw a similar situation taking place – actually two at once, about ten metres from eachother – in the first, two small children, around six or seven years old, stood a few metres from their parents with snacks, and were joyously feeding the seagulls small portions of their food. The second involved a young lady sitting on a concrete slab eating her lunch, unwittingly inviting the gulls' attention in the way a rape victim invites her attackers by wearing pants, a skivvy, and an oh-so-tantalizing thick, hooded jacket – not at all.
So this day last week – now that I'm thinking about it, I'm fairly sure it was Friday – while I was eating my second baguette, I was also keeping fairly strong in my no-crumbs vigil, even going so far as to stamp small lettuce leaf that fell from my sandwich into the floor, ensuring that it would not become fodder to encourage my hated, white enemy. I was pissed, they kept coming closer. “Fuck. Off!”, I could be heard to curse, while swinging my satchel over my head at the fiends like a crude, medieval mace. I was crazed and livid with fury, I hated them, I still do, it seethed through my veins like hot chocolate, the poison kind, and made my vision turn red with bloodlust.
As I watched the two children feeding the birds this morning I felt a slight uneasiness at their situation; their parents had their backs turned and no doubt did not give a second thought to their offspring who were slowly being completely encircled by a throng of disgusting birds. The children were blissfully ignorant to the very real, emergent threat of being completely engulfed by these airborne goons – their childhoods were about to come to a rude and abrupt end. My mace-arm twitched while I considered walking over and shooing the foul beasts away, but before I could commit to what would no doubt be an unnecessary act of aggression in the eyes of the public, the young woman on the concrete slab screamed, and my eyes darted over to her just in time to see a seagull in the retreating arc of a giant swoop, and the woman's food flying from her hands and onto the floor. The pack of birds quickly ran on their scaly feet to where the food fell, and in seconds the pack dispersed leaving not a crumb behind on the battlefield – the dumb violence of the world playing out in a few short seconds as these Darwinian beasts fought for scraps of life on the concrete floor.
I fell victim to a similar attack on Friday, even after my continuous displays trying to assert my dominance over these wild things while I ate my food. I can't expect any different than that they should exercise their biological imperative and search for food, but I am fully prepared to loathe them nonetheless, and loathe them I do... oh god I hate them so much. As the birds screeched an uproar over their unfortunate victim's breakfast today, I felt quietly vindicated for my violent posturings on Friday – I can only hope that her opinion of seagulls was ruined forever. Maybe you'll think again next time you see some wild animal with what you believe to be humility in its eyes approaching you as you nibble on some human snack. Maybe, or maybe you just think I'm an animal hater. I mean, I probably am, but I'm probably right too.
Peace, Taco.
One day last week during one of my ever-more-frequently pointless trips to Fed Square (my tour company is failing so I usually go to the square and wait for twenty minutes for no one to show up, and then leave) I was accosted by a group of these flying rats. I was finishing the first of two baguettes I had bought for my breakfast (Metro Baguette, corner of Elizabeth and Flinders, $5, ridiculous) and was about to start on the second. As soon as I'd arrived in my usual waiting place I caught the attention of these thugs of the sky, and about ten or twelve of them drew up around me, waiting for crumbs to spill. I'm not a charity service, nor do I support the special brand of insidious violence these animals perpetrate, so I made sure to spill nothing. Not a crumb. Not a sliver of salad.
This morning I saw a similar situation taking place – actually two at once, about ten metres from eachother – in the first, two small children, around six or seven years old, stood a few metres from their parents with snacks, and were joyously feeding the seagulls small portions of their food. The second involved a young lady sitting on a concrete slab eating her lunch, unwittingly inviting the gulls' attention in the way a rape victim invites her attackers by wearing pants, a skivvy, and an oh-so-tantalizing thick, hooded jacket – not at all.
So this day last week – now that I'm thinking about it, I'm fairly sure it was Friday – while I was eating my second baguette, I was also keeping fairly strong in my no-crumbs vigil, even going so far as to stamp small lettuce leaf that fell from my sandwich into the floor, ensuring that it would not become fodder to encourage my hated, white enemy. I was pissed, they kept coming closer. “Fuck. Off!”, I could be heard to curse, while swinging my satchel over my head at the fiends like a crude, medieval mace. I was crazed and livid with fury, I hated them, I still do, it seethed through my veins like hot chocolate, the poison kind, and made my vision turn red with bloodlust.
As I watched the two children feeding the birds this morning I felt a slight uneasiness at their situation; their parents had their backs turned and no doubt did not give a second thought to their offspring who were slowly being completely encircled by a throng of disgusting birds. The children were blissfully ignorant to the very real, emergent threat of being completely engulfed by these airborne goons – their childhoods were about to come to a rude and abrupt end. My mace-arm twitched while I considered walking over and shooing the foul beasts away, but before I could commit to what would no doubt be an unnecessary act of aggression in the eyes of the public, the young woman on the concrete slab screamed, and my eyes darted over to her just in time to see a seagull in the retreating arc of a giant swoop, and the woman's food flying from her hands and onto the floor. The pack of birds quickly ran on their scaly feet to where the food fell, and in seconds the pack dispersed leaving not a crumb behind on the battlefield – the dumb violence of the world playing out in a few short seconds as these Darwinian beasts fought for scraps of life on the concrete floor.
I fell victim to a similar attack on Friday, even after my continuous displays trying to assert my dominance over these wild things while I ate my food. I can't expect any different than that they should exercise their biological imperative and search for food, but I am fully prepared to loathe them nonetheless, and loathe them I do... oh god I hate them so much. As the birds screeched an uproar over their unfortunate victim's breakfast today, I felt quietly vindicated for my violent posturings on Friday – I can only hope that her opinion of seagulls was ruined forever. Maybe you'll think again next time you see some wild animal with what you believe to be humility in its eyes approaching you as you nibble on some human snack. Maybe, or maybe you just think I'm an animal hater. I mean, I probably am, but I'm probably right too.
Peace, Taco.
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