the fractured psyche of tex texerson

There is a whale of a woman lumbering along the path carrying a bag of birdfeed. From this heavy sack she extracts handfuls of seed, which she then tosses overhand at the gathered ducks. Her portions are in line with what I imagine the scene at her dinner table to be like – substituting the seeds for mashed potatoes and gravy. The five or six waterfowl in the vicinity shall not go hungry tonight, this much is for certain. The irony of me eating a 1/2 lb swiss melt burger as I ponder this is not lost on me. That I will wake up tomorrow morning a svelte 120lbs while she will still be pushing 260 is not either. A pair of seagulls arrive to feast just as Big Bertha distributes the rest of the feed, which now forms a thick carpet around her mammoth feet. I suppose she is one up on the ladies who have chosen to stay indoors munching on Cheetos and watching Oprah, but they have not waddled into my line of sight wearing tank tops so we’ll call it a wash.

If only birds were like fish when it comes to food, eating whatever is in front of them until they explode. I might like them a lot more, and the thousands of scattered bird carcasses would create work for people who might otherwise be blowing their family’s savings pretending to be daytraders.

A bitter old man asks a passing cyclist if she can see the nearby sign telling people they must walk their bikes. It’s one of those ones where the required behavior is circled in green, as opposed to a red circle crossing out the prohibited behavior. There is a usability case here but I think it speaks for itself. She wisely ignores him, as do I, but I see his point.