Birds of a feather

Last night, in a grocery store parking lot, I saw several small birds fighting over the discarded remnants of someone’s Subway sandwich.

There appeared to be plenty for everyone, until a big black crow swooped down, puffed out its chest and strutted around the coveted culinary treasure, intimidating the smaller birds. He then snatched up the the biggest piece in his beak and took off with it.

Minutes later, as I went inside, the maskless guy in front of me snapped at the teenaged girl handing out masks by the entrance.

“You can’t enforce it! If you don’t believe me, go check your website!” he barked at her, proudly strutting past into the store full of muzzled sheeple that he was about to totally pwn.

“Trust me,” the girl called after him, “you ain’t that big of a deal.”

He simply ignored that snowflake, totally pwning her. With his head held high, and with the confident stride of a well-Googled man who knows he knows everything about everything, he went about his business of buying groceries and spreading freedom disease just like a true American patriot. Just like George Washington crossing the Delaware. Just like the troops at Normandy. Just like 9/11 first responders. I mean, he was essentially Rambo, to be perfectly honest.

Jaws dropped in shock n’ awe at the sight of him. I saw a woman have to sit down on a bench and fan herself after he brushed past her.

“Now that’s a man!” I heard someone say. A few beta males bowed to him and told him that they wished they had his courage and offered to let him have sex with their wives. The BDE he was generating made the music overhead crackle with static before transitioning mid-song from Bananarama’s Cruel Summer to George Thorogood’s Bad to the Bone.

He reminded me of that crow.

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