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This is what bored middle-aged sport-rec pilots do with too much time on their hands.

The following is based on true events; however,  they may have been slightly embellished..........but only slightly.  

PART I

Birds in the Toy Box Have a Play Day, by Jack Masters

Cast of Characters
Blackbird - Keith's black GT 400
Bluebird - Bill's Kolb
Pigeon -Hammernick's GT400
McKeebird - H. McKee
Burnbird - B. Burns
Kiwi's and Penguins - folks that are on the ground wishing they were in the air


A Blackbird looks across the open field with careful eye. A Bluebird flitters down
taking his place beside the gazing feathered observer. A discussion is taken up on the
boredom that suffocates the day. “What’s up Mr Black?” In an unremarkable sigh “Nuttin”.
A long silence follows the intense and belabored answer. A white pigeon flies by, sees the
loitering ornithological wonders, and turns to catch the discussion. “What up dudes?”
“Nuttin” followed by a pale quietness. “We need to start some trouble.” Says Mr Black.
“What kind of trouble says Bluebird?” “Yeah, what kind a trouble?” inquires Pigeon.
“Something that’ll be memorable, something entertaining, something dangerous.” he
replies. “Cool”, says Bluebird. “What you got in mind?” “I’m feeling a little like I could drop
a bomb on some unsuspecting human’s car, if you know what I mean. It’s not original, but
we haven’t done it in a while; and I have been eyeballing that red Camaro with the moon
roof over there…. it looks, inviting”. “I gotta new idea on a bomb design that I saw on
airplane repo”, says Pigeon. Considering the day was starting to look like just another day in
the life of any other bird, there exudes a new and rekindled enthusiasm among the
mischievous winged critters. The birds retire to the scientific lab for the construction of
the finest bomb design known to the free flying world. A magnificent three stage
masterpiece that saturates the target with a heavy dose of the white-stuff you see in bird
doo. After carefully-meticulous and laborious efforts, a bomb is fashioned with even a
second design; both, to be sent to testing immediately. “Who wants to go first?” asked
pigeon. “Let’s get Mr Burnbird” says Bluebird. “He’s leaving out with McKeebird in a
minute. They can try the design, if it works, we’ll drop ours afterward”. The three professors
of poo scurry off to find Mr Burnbird. After a few minutes of searching they find Mr
Burnbird had just landed with an accomplice, Mr McKeebird. A little flight-weary, the two
make their way over to the laboratory where the professors of poo-bomb engineering
address him with kind salutations and presented him with their findings. He eyes them
questioningly when they deliver the suggestion that he be their test pilot. Mr. Burnbird
looks at the bomb, then looks at the group of feathery friends (a descriptive word he once
thought applied to the winged formations crouched before him; he wonders now why are
they his friends?). He flew-in this morning to have a simple and informative bird chat. And
now there’s this crazy group of birds asking him to join their insanity. With a calculated and
wary debate, Mr Burnbird, under a quiet but deliberate protest, finally conceded to a test
flight with Mr McKeebird releasing the payload of white bird doo. Excitement and fervor
swept over the so-called friends of Mr Burnbird as they gathered near the red Camaro
(“How could I allow myself to be squawked into such a bird-brain idea”, he thought. After
all, he was the quintessential by-the-book bird-flyer ever to depart terra firma. Yet, here was
a group of the most radicalized birds that he had ever met drawing him into their
hallucinated excursion. He was skeptical to say the least.
When they took flight, there was a slightly pushy and demanding south easterly breeze that
carried their light frame around the sky like a child carries a heavy bucket of water. As they
neared the foreboding red Camaro, the loss of altitude was intentional. It’s a maneuver birds
have executed for centuries and centuries. There was breathless anticipation in the crowd
of feathery flamingos (a term of endearment that Burnbird, now flustered, had suddenly
attached to the guys on the ground). As he and McKeebird neared the target, a light-speed
mathematical computation raced through their heads. The formula had to be perfect in
order for this trial to have any chance of success. Ground speed + altitude - corrected for
windage, factoring in the transcontinental rotation of the earth. It was a collegiate
computation, desperate for decisive completion; and essential in order to derive the perfect
timing of the drop. The ground was racing underneath them. There was a smell of winter in
the air. Other birds could be seen flitting about the area, paying no attention to the display
of childishness beneath them. Mr McKeebird, predictable and mild mannered, waited
patiently for the release moment. As airspeed increased, so did the sound of life; loud, its
brevity, authoritative. Tranquility flooded the participants on this stage with perfectly
sublime joy. They were fledglings again; without a care in the world. The hum of reality
faded slowly. There was no sound, there was just this moment. There was nothing else.
Everything that was of consequential significance suddenly held no value. The fact that
Obama’s an idiot in this moment didn’t matter. Okay, maybe a little. But this targeting
exercise was the consequentially significant!!! It was do-or die time! Let it go!!!!!! “NOW!”
shouted, Burnbird. McKeebird released the bomb. Its path of travel was deliberate. The
bomb thirsted for its target. “Red Camaro” the bomb thought with contempt. “Pfsss…… Im
coming fah ya! “Im Comin fah ya” The distance closed rapidly, too quick for thought, too
quick for blinking. There were yards to travel, then feet, an inch, explosion!
AWWWWWE dangit!!!!!! The white stuff missed by just a foot!!!! When it landed, it made
the sound that bird poo makes when it hits the ground. But, `this was a bomb sized poo
poo. Looking at it, one could see it had splattered up on to the front left bumper of the
Camaro. The car whimpered with relief...........

PART II

.......It was a proud moment for birds everywhere; even those that didn’t even care. The nest of
feathered onlookers squawked, guffawed, and laughed hysterically at the glowing success of
the first attempt.
In the laboratory, after a huge discussion, the attempt was documented, studied for
corrective measures, and an agreement reached that the next attempt would be the drop of
the century. Mr Blackbird who excitedly volunteered for the next attempt, loaded his bomb
bay, took to the sky, and made his approach. Characterized by excited expectation and child
like amusement, the covey of birds has now grown to include a few local kiwi birds, a couple
of penguins, and other flightless dreamers. Their anticipation grew as Mr Blackbird dove for
the Camaro! Remembering all the data gathered from the previous droppings, Mr Blackbird
became momentarily lost in the dreamful site of his white droppings striking its target
causing massive carnage and devastation. In this ephemeral trance he had calculated the
same mathematical computation as Mr Burnird and McKeebird. In purposeful and
confident determination he took aim. Steadying his approach, the target grew larger and
larger in his site.” A little longer” he said to himself. “It’s too early, I’m too far right”. “There,
right there!” The only thing he could hear was the steady rhythmic drum beat of his heart.
He releases the incendiary. He knew he had released his dropping at precisely the right
moment. He KNEW it would hit its mark. There was no questioning it. There was no
doubting it. The bomb, now on its way, drove toward its prey with perfect intent. As quickly
as the release flicked, there was heard a clap of impact and the snap of precision contact.
Almost the same sound of the universe cracking in time and dimension. ABSOLUTE
SUCCESS!!!!! Immediately, a roar from the gallery was heard across the open field. The
crickets stopped cricketing. The frogs stopped mid-croak; eyes bulging, their throats locked,
swollen, and pregnant. Mr Bluebird shouted with jubilation! Pigeon, proud and content,
secretively wished it had been him. Mr Blackbird, satisfied with the size and magnitude of
his dropping, smiled with superfluous satisfaction. Size really does matter.
It was truly an unbelievable historical moment in birdom. Not bad for a day of research,
development, and testing. Mr Pigeon’s new design proved a daunting and formidable new
weapon in our birds’ arsenal of mischievousness.
Back in the briefing room after a perfect day, the birds sat enjoying their achievement; each
one taking turns describing in detail how the explosion of Mr Blackbirds dropping had
entertained everyone. It had centered the moon roof; splattering one of the finest examples
of the white stuff ever seen on a vehicle. Memorable, entertaining, and dangerous it was.

News of the event spread quickly. “The Daily Drop”, a decidedly biased local rag, hailed it
as one of the most impressive droppings in history. The Ornothops of the Hall of the Birds,
a clandestine and secretive organization that records and oversees all droppings awarded Mr
Blackbird their congressional medal of honor. All were well convinced that he had not failed
in perpetuating the near mythological mystery of the white stuff in bird droppings.


The End

Now we just need film!