Sir: I recently had a rather vile and disgusting experience. I parked on King Street on a recent evening. It was the perfect parking spot, leaving me feeling proud and satisfied that we managed to score such a convenient location for our dinner and music concert down the street.
Dinner was absolutely delicious; the concert was lovely. We returned to the car four hours later to find layer, upon layer, upon layer of crow poop. It was to the point where the sidewalks were slippery, the roadway hazardous. And the guano bombs were still coming fast and furious.
My normally blue car was almost entirely covered and dripping with white, brown and other fiendish hues. I gingerly helped my aunt get into the car, trying to ensure she didn’t slip right under the car, only to sploosh my way to the driver’s side.
Once in the vehicle, after uttering expletives I normally try to avoid saying in front of Aunt Marian, I started the car and realized I couldn’t see out the windshield due to the carnage covering all windows. I look down: my windshield fluid light is on.
“Nooooooooo,” I cried, hoping and praying there may be just a few last ounces of that sweet washer fluid nectar to allow for enough visibility to drive. A few miserly jets come out. I put pulled back on the wiper wash hand hard, willing every last drop out. Combined with a light rain and the highest setting of my wipers, I managed to clear enough visibility to see out the front.
We made it to Aunt Marian’s place. I saw the car under a brighter light, and rear back in horror again. I will never be able to unsee this. I drive as swiftly but safely as I can down Keil Drive, wondering what other drivers are thinking as I pass by.
I stare blankly through the refuse-blotted windshield, hoping and praying that the car wash on Richmond was still open. Sakes alive it was! Hallelujah!
I punched in my wash code, the entrance door slides up and I pull into the car wash. As the layers of water and soap cover the car, I can feel the layers of horror wash away from my psyche, along with the layers upon layers of crow crap.
I watch with satisfaction as my window & windshield visibility begin to return, and feel that all will be right with the world again soon. This was all a bad dream, and I’ll just push it out of my mind, never to think of again.
I pull out of the car wash and back in front of the gas station. This trauma clearly deserves some junk food as a reward. I head into the gas bar and load up on supplies.
Relaying my tale of guano-woe to the cashier – she couldn’t believe it either. “I thought that was just over on this side of town,” she exclaimed. “I did too,” I exclaimed back.
Loaded down with artery-clogging comfort food, I stepped back outside and returned to what should be my beloved vehicle. I stop, stunned. My roof; what the heck was wrong with my roof?? The colour was not the same as the rest of the car; it’s jagged, matted … gone? Several layers of paint in several areas across the roof of my car have been eaten away by the crow guano!
In the four hours my poor, innocent vehicle was bombarded by the Crow Luftwaffe, their radioactive poop had literally eaten away layers of paint on my car. What are these nefarious creatures eating?
I enter my now sparkling clean (and clearly traumatized) vehicle and head home. Please, comedy gods, I need the funniest episode of Saturday Night Live tonight that was ever written.
I hope that by sharing my tale of guano-woe, if even one innocent person or vehicle can be spared this terror, it will be worth it.
Alysson Storey
Chatham
