If you are a die hard reviewer with no tolerance for moronic drivel and androgynous lampshades, please read this review, it is both moronic and quite prone to drivel on your freshly pressed trousers!

I have never had much luck with the feathered folk. To birds I am but death waiting to happen. I am the cyanide coated seeds upon which they feed and the toxic water with which they wet their little beaks. I do not hate birds, I love them with gusto and much groin guile mind you! And as the old saying goes, too much love is a bad thing, even when your best friends clad themselves in tar and chicken feathers and smell strongly of Alpine furniture, it only results in bird-a-cide and much seed spillage.

Clad me in leather and call me Cat Woman, if you must! Although my tight leather, or should I say pleather Ledershosen do give me the appearance of being a young feline-esque post-mistress dancing the night away in a sweaty Berlin disco, I am in fact not a cat or a lampshade. Though I’m sure you’d think of me as being one, as I am very prone to coughing up fur balls and having people stroke my fuzzy little body in the most rhythmic of ways with large boulders and odd construction equipment painted yellowish tinges of Burnt Sienna.

This is my tragic Faustian story of operatic proportions, a fest of sadness and Viking helmets with flaxen blonde pig tails attached to their nippular nodules . Woe is me! My Germanic corpse shrivels in silent torment!

I must confess my crimes against birdom in all their entirety , this will be my trial at The Hague, my Nuremburg, my River Dance, my final fling with the pongy sewing machine! “Fin!” as a Finnish Frenchman once said.

In Eastern Germany birds were a rare sighting with the Berlin Bird Net and all.

It was most rough for Pippy the Penguin and his pals when Kruschev began the systematic slaughter of all birds named Bob for fear that they carried ballistic missiles and badly made socks of a lower nylon caste! I didn’t like tapioca scones after that or knee socks as a matter of fact.

When I was young, birds were things my Oma used to talk of, like paprika and adult diapers, they meant nothing to my young and somewhat curious mind. I would sit at home many a cold night playing with my dolls, and dressing in mother's finest Bavarian silk thongs, thinking, "What is a bird?" I had seen many strange things flying in the sky, metal objects billowing black smoke and letting off high pitched screeching sounds. Birds I assumed? Maybe the bird had had too much Knockwurst, I thought? Yes I was stupid then, and I can't say the lobotomy helped too much, but whatever Doctor Ivan Kavorkian said was game and I followed him as does a blind rabbit following a mossy brick.

So one day I climbed atop the roof of our government built hut, and brandishing a wooden spatula I demanded that Thor show me the thing that the Westerners called bird or as us odd Ossi’s would call them in moments of great angst, Stahl-Schnittlauch! I screamed and billowed out various pagan odes and danced various dances involving slathering oneself in large globs of thistle impregnated mud to please him. Sadly my just having hit puberty didn’t help my singing at all and the mud had made the roof most slippery and moist. Thor began to grow most disgusted with my high pitched squeaks and chirps, and in a moment of, as I like to call it, “passion”, he struck me from the roof with one mighty swish of his large throbbing hammer.

Finding no answers from Thor the Gloved Trailer Midget, I decided to look into a black market copy of "Bird Gardens: Welcoming Wild Birds to Your Yard," as buying anything that mentioned the word bird in it was highly banned by the KGB and Stasi! This book titillated me to the point of utter malnutrition, it was from that day on my bird Bible! It was full of bird lore, odd bits and nobs and much arousing info!

I found it helpful in that it told me the right way of going about attracting birds, be it by planting trees birds find sexually arousing or supplying them with food that sinks well into their little tummy tum tums. I followed what the book said as the word of Crompton van Longfellow, putting up bird feeders in sunny yet sheltered spots, keeping my Mastiffs and Shetland pony well away from their frolicking area, and supplying them with a variety of seeds! Yet what good does a book do when birds view me as being some suicidal beacon that they must flock to? I have within the past few years seen every bird I have ever tried to comfort drop quite stone dead at the mere touch of my clammy hand!
Just the other day a little sparrow flew smack dab into my window, braining its little brain most tragically! I felt quite sad at his passing, so I wrapped him in many a plastic bag, and laid him to rest with a little prayer. All the dead birds I find get full military burials, topped off with their own little boxes and a tear from my glistening eye. They are truly wonderful little things with more heart than many sub-simian humans I find flittering about my mansion asking for the odd bagel or jar of Gray Poupon. Yet for all their lack of navigational abilities I find them the most pleasing of creatures next to dogs. I love to hear their little chirps in the dewy morn air, and the fluttering of their little wings at night, but what good is it if you’re cursed with the old Germanic bird hex Vogeltodschlachtspatenstahl? What good does a book do you? I am damned………..


Recommended: No