I escaped the heat this past weekend and hit the beach near Santa Barbara to celebrate the fourth (me and Oprah, according to Bill Feingold at K-NEWS).
The weekend was good save one minor incident. There I was, sitting at a picnic table, enjoying a riveting game of King’s Cup, and I feel something hit my back. I was undisturbed, since the weekend had already been riddled with fallen leaves and branches, until one guy, more excited than I had ever seen him, said. “DUDE! A bird just shat on your back!”
Cool.
After carefully removing my shirt, I discovered that we weren’t talking like the bird had flown by and decided to drop a morsel of his crap on me as he crapped over other things. Oh, no. More like the bird flew over me, saw my back, and was like, “yeah, I think I’m going to crap all over that right there.”
It’s still in the washing machine.
