Bird flu is here amongst us, right in the middle of the city, and the government are doing nothing. I just walked past a dead pigeon, lying right in the middle of the street, with no obvious signs of death by car or mauling by cats. Therefore, it must be BIRD FLU. AAAHHHHHHHH!!! FUCKING HELL! SOMEBODY SAVE US!
There is not one man in a white suit with a large stick to collect it, or a space-age like tent cordoning off the dead bird. I'm not waiting: I'm going to start culling, from my window, with a large blunderbuss that I found in the cellar (which will make a satisfyingly colourful splat of the pigeons, kind of like a firework, only with entrails). I'm also considering culling the dog-owners that let their pooches push out plentiful poop onto the streets.
I never used to kill anything. I used to take ants and cockroaches outside on pieces of paper, but ever since having a moth and cockroach infestation I've gone a bit P-S-Y-C-H-O. I conservatively estimate that I've killed about 200 moths in the last month, and maybe a few less cockroaches.
The moths go into the hoover, which seems to be the best way to get them. Actually, the same principle would probably apply to the pigeons, if I could get a big enough hoover. Not sure about the dog-owners, though.
Anyway, how do we assign value to a life (he says, stroking his beard thoughtfully, before taking off his sandals, lighting an incense stick and settling down to some erotic eastern massage)?
Obviously, MY life is worth more than everyone else's, because I am ginger and therefore genetically superior to everyone, but why should people be able to kill a moth without guilt or consequence, but go to jail for choking someone to death with a particularly large and slippery dog turd. Is that fair? Is it about size? If that's the case, is it OK to shoot someone when they're really far away, because they look small?
I'm now off to my weekly Sociopaths' currant bun social evening.