It's killing me.Literally, and I am not exaggerating.
Note: Yes, I am.
It's killing me because there is a woodpecker outside my bedroom window. That stupid beast is outside my bedroom window every morning at 6:45 a.m.
Pecking away, yes.
It's not killing me because that danged creature is damaging the house, no. I don't really care. And it's not really killing me that every morning I am awakened, not by a tap-tap-tap but a tap-tap-rat-a-tat-tappity-Mc-Tap-Tap tap-tap-rat-a-tat-tappity-Mc-Tap-Tap.
Note: How does that bird not have a headache?
No, it's killing me because I am sitting on a plethora of Pecker jokes, which, due to my genteel manner and strict upbringing I feel may be inappropriate to share with my readers.
Blast!
I want to say Death to the Pecker or That Pecker is Going Down or That Pecker Has Pecked His Last Wood, but alas, I cannot.
And I cannot observe how Peter Piper Picked a Peck of Pickled Peckers. Oh, wait. That's not right.
Whatever.
But I have to tackle the Pecker problem. I've got a bone to peck with that bird. Pick, I mean.
Sweet Holy Smokes.
1 comment:
How about an airgun? It worked for Ryan on his mission and agressive dogs. I know this is different but it might be fun. . . as long as your neighbor's window is not right behind the woodpecker.
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