I felt lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut when I was on the beach late in the afternoon yesterday.
The ocean is my idea of heaven so y’all know something pretty doggone bad had to have happened.
Well, I was snapping pictures of rock doves and they decided to hook beaks. Yeah. Bow-chicka-bow-wow.
It wouldn’t have been that bad, but nobody noticed me until that very moment. I had only taken two pictures of the pigeons before they decided to get all lovey-dovey. People looked at me as if I were some sick sumbitch into animal sex. This one woman’s jaw dropped like I had just stolen her Twinkie. An older man responded with a “your a pervert” shake of the head.
I shrugged and tried to plead my case. “No..I wasn’t. You don’t understand. I..I..” Screw it. They’re tourists. They won’t see me again until next year anyway — good lord willin’ and the ocean don’t rise.
I swear. Bad luck follows me like a hound dog trailing the scent of a raccoon. It’s always been this way. Trouble and humiliation find me — a lot like it finds The Dude in The Big Lebowski or Larry David in Curb Your Enthusiasm.
You know how often I pass children and — by coincidence, wink — their parents call to them, “Get over here!” They might as well whistle and yell, “Come on, Sissy. Come on, Egbert. Get away from that dirty dharma beach bum.”
Why me, Ra? Why me?
Job put up with less. Well, that’s overstating it, considering Job’s body boils and dead family and stuff, but y’all know what I mean. Strangely enough, when I decided to cite Job and his suffering in this blog, I googled Wikipedia and found out that he had a daughter named Jemimah. Jemimah means “dove.”
That brings me back to the amorous pigeons. They needed to get a roost.
What? You want proof. Oh, you’re just curious. Okay, here you go: