Birds are nothing but flying rats, and they go out of their way to poop on my car. It all starts when they see me with the bucket and sponge. One by one I see them flock together and start to circle over my car like a bunch of vultures, just waiting for me to finish. When I go inside, they dip into their little secret birdie stash of turbo laxitive and commence to dealin' me some misery and woe. The impatient ones land on the edge of the roof or in a nearby tree and start cawing at me to hurry up because their getting uncomfortable and can't wait much longer. My wife's minivan and my badly oxidized Intrepid sit out basking in the sun all day, and if they so much as get a drop of poo on them it solely because the stupid bird missed or it splattered off the Viper. As I peer out the window at my poor car, knowing its impending doom, I think to myself "This is what Pearl Harbor must have looked like the morning of December 7th, 1941." I hate birds...and don't even get me started about what happens after I wax.