A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush unless the bush is housing two hundred birds and the hand is legally blind and its wearing a pair of crummy paper goggles….”
by david moscovich
You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink, smoke, brew beer, barbeque, write a letter in cursive, or pack sardines in a badly lit factory under sweatshop conditions without the proper vending machine protocol. Hell, you can’t make a horse do the cha-cha, no salsa, no bourbon, no gin tonic (although we have seen a horse use a hula-hoop), no chef du jour horses, no horse fishermen, no horse sailors, no horse cabbies that can actually make a proper godamn left turn. The beaten path is for beaten men, iceberg lettuce, wilted cabbage, oxymorons, villiage idiosyncracies, witless parrots, fretless guitars, stressfree workplaces in a positive business environment that don’t hold accountability to employers who discriminate based on race, color, sexdrive or golf club membership. The beaten path is for lame ducks, limp dicks, wet wicks, spiritual swindlers, those who can’t teach gym. The early bird gets the worm, chokes on it, attempts to cough it up frothing at the mouth in a vitamin C snorting frenzy, his airpassage gets blocked, he falls out of the tree onto a patch of seagreen riverworms in the middle of a riverworm barmitzva (one of them turned thirteen days old and they hired DJ Danger Mouse for the afterparty, the guy knows how to throw a party for reals) so the riverworms told him to stop barking and get on with it, and who the hell did he think he was, a barking bird?
Cantata in b Minor
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, unless the bird is dead. Unless the one in the hand is about to fly anyway, that’s what birds do. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush unless the bush is housing two hundred birds and the hand is legally blind and its wearing a pair of crummy paper goggles, unless the bird makes doodoo in your hand, unless the bird is ten times your weight and tries to take you back to the nest and makes you feed her little birds, all thirteen of them while she goes to badminton club. Unless the hand is covered in a thick layer of poisonous slippery green slime, the kind of slime that coats the bird’s feet and sends it into an epileptic seizure then loss of nerve function, deafness and lisp, and nobody wants a bird with a lisp, unless she looks like John Candy, the female avian version with a lisp, that would be really good, but most people would have to disagree, and that’s fine with me. That’s just fine.
David Moscovich recently finished a handbook for writers called The Dutch Wife Chronicles. It comes with its own soundtrack, and every page is bursting with rubber dolls.