by Bernie the Gull
Hey buddy. I noticed that you’re having fun there with your young family: adorable Joshua, sweet Kendra, little Mary, Gad, Franklin, Brigham, and Naphtali. Yep, this is a wonderful park where you can really relax and eat in peace between the parade and fireworks.
I also noticed that you told your cute little ragamuffins to not feed the seagull ‘cuz it would encourage other “trash birds” to fly over and spoil your Pioneer Day.
Not that a trash bird’s opinion matters, but I know something about the pioneers too. If it wasn’t for me and my buddies grabbing them foul-tasting crickets a few years back, you wouldn’t be here enjoying, what is that, potato or pasta salad? That’s because your great-great grandfather would have either starved or eaten frozen cricket-soufflé himself for Thanksgiving if we hadn’t saved that crop of his.
Isn’t that worth a morsel of your bologna sandwich? How about a sliver of that cheese cake your wife is holding there? I’ll even take some of that jello salad over yonder, though it’s mostly empty calories.
So what is a little poop on your minivan compared to your forbearers huddling in their little hovels eating pinecones and pieces of boiled saddle bag? Just think of the winter of 1848 the next time you choose to be stingy with what looks like a succulent lunch.
Are those Cheetos? Say, I love Cheetos. Just one, huh?
See that family under the pavilion, the McAllister’s? They threw me a whole half-slice of rye. They aren’t even from Utah. Their families are from Minnesota and weren’t miraculously saved by my trashy ancestors.
You think I enjoy the degradation of picking through the garbage bags behind the Chuckorama? Yeah, the choice is mine, alright: between the moldy lettuce and the sun-hardened mayonnaise crusted on to the pavement.
Look, I don’t even have any friends, okay? Nobody is going to be encouraging anybody if a scrap is thrown my way. Truth is, my ancestors ate bad cricket on that very famous of days and died before the could disgorge themselves. I know, I didn’t want to bring my personal history into all of this, but I’ve been emotionally crippled for quite awhile and I could really use a hand.
Say, those cookies look awfully tasty. Yoo-hoo, over here, no teeth to rot, heh heh. Come on!
Okay, fine, be ungrateful. I didn’t want any of your delectable brownies or juicy-on-the-inside-but-crunchy-on-the-outside chicken wings anyway.
So, ah, which minivan was yours, did you say?
The Beehive Buzzsaw 