"A Christmas Story": Ralphie vs. The Nanny State

What you see above is a representation of America: a white, blonde-haired, blue-eyed mid-Western boy dressed as a cowboy holding a shotgun.

You might recognize him from America's 2nd favorite ignored-and-forgotten-then-resurrected-as-necessary-yearly-viewing Christmas classic, A Christmas Story.

But underneath its simple, heart-felt, charming mid-Western veneer lies a scathing social commentary on America's obsession with guns.

Here's looking at you, America.

Thanks to TBS' crippling holiday season addiction to the movie, everybody knows the plot: it's Christmas time and young Ralphie is devising a way to get his dream gift, an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle.

Ahh the good ole days of ultra-realistic toy guns in the hands of 8 uear olds.

It only became obvious to me this year, however, that the movie is in fact a biting critique of America's gun culture.

Let's start from the beginning. The opening scene involves the innocent boy longingly staring through a department store window at the toy gun. Within the first five minutes, the rifle is referred to as the "Holy Grail of gifts." Gifts have taken the place of religion on this supposedly holiest of all holidays, a common underlying critique contained in holiday movies. Here, a gun is the main object of desire, and the connection between guns and God is established early on.

Soon after, when his mom first asks what he wants for Christmas, Ralphie mistakenly blurts out that he wants the gun. He knows what she will say before she says it, the refrain which has become synonymous with the movie: "You'll shoot your eye out." Ralphie takes the rejection, telling her it's ok, "even though Flick is getting one." His first argument for having a gun is that someone else has one, so he needs one, too; a statement often heard in defense of gun ownership. This is also the first time we see the representation of the anti-gun lobby and the so-called "Nanny State": Ralphie's mom. 

Other people also represent the Nanny State (specifically, everybody who tells Ralphie he will shoot his eye out: his mother, his teacher, Santa) but the mother is the most obvious and foreboding. She is also the most competent family member. The father is in a never-ending, losing battle to the furnace and the neighbor's dogs. She knows the answers to the crossword when he struggles (in fact, her knowledge is the reason that he receives the controversial leg-lamp). She is simply more aware and competent as a parent all around, instilling the proper punishment when Ralphie swears, getting the boys ready for school, preparing all the meals, and everything else a mother (or nanny) is "expected" to do in the "golden era" of America. In the end, she is the most understanding and forgiving: after the fight with Farkus, she takes Ralphie home and tends to his wounds. She doesn't tell his father much about the fight because she doesn't want him to overreact ("Daddy's gonna kill Ralphie!"). Ralphie seems to finally appreciate the mother's wisdom and her concern for his well-being. And the audience realizes she was right all along: the gun is dangerous and Ralphie hurts himself.

On the other side, representing pro-gun people, such as the NRA, is the bumbling, lamp-ogling, almost-absentee father. He even looks and sounds a little bit like Charlton Heston. Despite the mother's protests (and the protests of the majority of characters in the movie) the father still gets his son the gun. He argues that it's tradition, claiming "I had one when I was 8 yrs old." Again, upon closer viewing (aka 24 hours in a row for the past eight Christmases) it is obvious that this movie is a thinly-veiled allegory for America's failure to regulate guns despite the overwhelming majority of Americans who want reasonable, logical gun regulations. 

Self-defense is often used in defense (ha!) of gun ownership, and the movie memorably presents a constant danger that terrorizes Ralphie and his friends. 

This asshole.

Scott fuckin Farkus. This hideous creature is the bully of the block and a sincere threat to the boys' safety. 

And Ralphie takes him out with his bare hands. When he finally stands up to the bigger, seemingly stronger kid, he is able to defeat the bully on his own. And everybody lives another day.

Ralphie conquers the real villain, and his fear, without a gun; of course, as a "red-blooded American," he still wants a gun to defeat his imaginary enemy: Black Bart. 

Black Bart. The imaginary dark criminal of white America's nightmares. 

The dream sequence where Ralphie takes out Bart's crew even has the movie's two lone black characters, thugs that Ralphie shoots dead with no remorse to the sound of his family cheering. This is the fantasy of the average American.

Merry Christmas, America!

When Ralphie finally gets his gun, in reality, the first thing he does is shoot himself in the face. The second thing he does is lie to his mom about it. His mom believes him, as most Americans believe gun myths, and she takes him in.

Not surprisingly, Ralphie still loves his gun, despite not really needing it for self defense and almost blinding himself. So in the end, maybe his mother wasn't exactly right. He didn't shoot his eye out (she may have exaggerated a little to get her point across out of concern for her child) but her foresight was pretty damn accurate. That doesn't matter to Ralphie, though. Even shooting himself in the face and breaking his glasses won't dampen his love for his gun. 

Indeed, no matter how many times you tell Americans they are more likely to get hurt by a gun when they own a gun, they just don't listen. The last scene of the movie shows Ralphie sleeping soundly in his bed, with a smile on his face and his gun in his arms, completely oblivious to the fact that he's more likely to blow his own head off then ever save his family.

In fact, they made A Christmas Story 2, and the plot follows Ralphie to middle school where he shoots himself in the balls and asks Santa for a new testicle.

As always with sequels, the guns are bigger and more people get shot in the scrotum.

Maybe. I never saw it, and I'm sure you never did, either, so let's just say that's what happens. 

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

Stand Yuletide Ground aka The War on Santa

The boy lay on his bed watching the snow falling outside his window.

It was perfect. Christmas Eve. Snow. A belly full of turkey, mashed potatoes, and pie. He could stay like this, wide awake, all night. But he knew sleep would bring Christmas morning and all those glorious presents to him sooner. He closed his eyes and drifted off, dreaming about the video games he would be playing tomorrow.

He woke up from a deep sleep a few hours later. As his eyes fluttered open, he heard a thud from downstairs. Could it be?

He tossed the covers aside and sprinted to his door as quietly as possible. He cracked the door open enough to stick his head out and look down the hallway towards his parents bedrom. Their door was closed. He opened his door and crept to the stairs. There was definitely noise coming from the first floor, and it sounded like it was in the living room, where the tree was set up.

Out of excitement, he almost screeched the Old Man's name, but somehow held back. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and he didn't want to blow it.

He crawled downstairs on his belly, suppressing the gas bubble that was attempting to force its way out.

The noise was getting louder. He crawled through the main hallway and towards the living room.

He slowly stuck his head around the corner and saw...

"Santa," he whispered. This was the moment he had been waiting for his whole life, and now he didn't know what to do.

But there he was: Old Saint Nick. Red hat, red coat with white trim. Big black boots. And there was his bag! Santa was taking items out and placing them under the tree.

Kyle had to talk to him. He didn't think it was right to sneak up on Santa, so he got to his feet and entered the room, gathering up the courage to say:

"Hi Santa!"

Santa jumped, then laughed his trademark ho ho ho.

"Oh you scared me there Kyle! Merry Christmas!" he said, turning to face the boy.

"Merry Christmas...Santa?" Kyle said. As the words came out, so too did the gas that had been building up inside him.

"Good one! Ho ho ho! " Santa chuckled.

Something was off. The outfit was all there: hat, jacket, boots. The white hair and beard were there. The red bag of gifts was there. His height seemed right. His weight seemed right. His jolly personality was certainly evident. But something was off.

Santa was...black?

"Merry Christmas Kyle! I'm sorry to wake you. There were just so many gifts here for you and your family that it's taking me a little longer than usual."

"That...that's ok...Ssa...Santa."

"What's the matter, Kyle?" Santa asked. "You look concerned. Are you worried that I forgot one of your gifts?"

"No, it's not that. It's just..."

"Are you worried I forgot a gift for one of your siblings?" Santa asked.

"No. No, we always get what we want. It's just..."

"Are you worried that you didn't leave enough cookies and milk for me?" Santa asked with a wink. "Ho ho ho! I assure you I get plenty of cookies throughout the night, and Misses Claus says I need to cut back!"

"No..."

"Do you want to know about the reindeer?" Santa asked. "Everybody asks about the reindeer."

"No, it's just..."

"How do I get across the whole planet in one night?"

"No, Santa. It's just...well...you're black."

Santa looked at the boy for a few seconds, then burst out laughing.

"Ho ho ho! Ohhhhh ho ho ho!"

He continued until he saw the boy's face grow sullen.

"Oh, child, you are adorable." Santa asked.

"I just thought..."

"It's ok. I get this all the time." Santa walked to the chair in the corner of the room and sat down. He took one of the three cookies from the small table next to the armrest.

"Talk to me, Kyle," Santa asked in between bites. "What's going through that head of yours?"

"Well, no offense..."

"None taken," Santa said, sipping on the warm milk.

"...but I pictured Santa as white."

"There's nothing wrong with that," Santa replied, wiping the milk residue from his thick white mustache. "People can envision me anyway they like."

"But now you're here, in front of me..."

"Yes," Santa said, reaching for another cookie.

"And you're black. It's just...it's weird."

"That's ok," Santa said. "Some people need a little time to get used to..."

Kyle cut him off: "I mean, there was turkey and mashed potatoes and key lime pie and apple pie, and it was snowing, and then Santa is in my house, and everything was just so perfect. And now," he wiped a tear from his eye, "now Christmas is ruined."

"Ok, I'm gonna stop you there kid," Santa said, standing up from the chair and putting the remaining piece of cookie on the table.

"Listen," Santa said, then took a swig of milk. "I understand you're a little surprised, maybe even disappointed, but does it really ruin your Christmas to know that I have darker skin than you imagined?"

"Well..."

"Take a second to think before you answer, Kyle," Santa said.

Kyle looked closely at Santa, inspecting the man from head to toe. Finally, Kyle's eyes came to rest on the dark skin underneath the white beard.

He thought for another moment, then spoke.

"I just had a different image in my head, and I feel like I've been lied to my whole life."

Santa looked at the boy and truly felt bad for him.

"Poor boy," Santa said. "I understand how you're feeling. And you're right, you have been lied to, and I'm sorry for that. It's shameful how adults lie to children out of the misguided notion that it's for the children's own good."

Santa walked to Kyle and knelt down in front of him, facing him eye to eye.

"It's not your fault that you are feeling this way, Kyle, and I forgive you."

"Oh...." Kyle stammered.

"Society is to blame here," Santa continued, "and you are just a victim."

"K...." Kyle muttered.

"Now, are we good?" Santa asked.

"Well..."

"What is it?" Santa asked.

"Do you think...would it be possible..."

"What?" Santa asked, losing patience.

"Could you be white, just for tonight? Just for me?"

Santa put a white-gloved hand to his temple and shook his head slowly.

"It's just that I've pictured you as white my whole life," Kyle said.

"Listen, son," Santa said, placing a hand upon the boy's shoulder. "I can't change my skin at will."

"But you said people can see you however they want."

"Yeah, I meant in your head. If people want to think of me as white, if that makes them feel better for some reason, that's fine by me. But in reality, in real life, in flesh and blood, I'm black. And that's just the way it is."

Kyle looked down at his shoes, a look of deep sadness washing over his face. Another tear rolled down his cheek.

Santa sighed.

"Listen, Kyle. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but try putting yourself in someone else's shoes. Think of all the little dark skin boys and girls out there who celebrate Christmas. Every year they write letters and worship some old white man. And all of the other heroes, from movies to the stories they teach in school, all of the people we look up to, they are all white. Think about it, can you name any black heroes?"

Kyle thought for a moment, then said, "Mart..."

"Besides Martin Luther King?" Santa said, before the boy could finish.

Kyle looked around the room, as if an answer would appear on the walls. He tried thinking of any black people he looked up to. He thought about the President, but then he remembered how his dad called the President a "friggen Moo-slum" and decided that was probably not a good thing.

"Can't do it, can you?" Santa asked. "That's okay. Again, it's not your fault. But think about how that makes all the little black boys and girls feel."

"What do you mean?"

"There are no well-known black heroes for all the little black boys and girls to look up to," Santa said.

Kyle looked down at his slippers for a minute, then said, "I never really thought of it that way."

"Most people don't" Santa replied.

"That's kind of messed up," Kyle said.

"Exactly," Santa said, patting the boy on the shoulder.

There was a sound in the hallway, then a voice called out:

"Kyle, Kyle is that you?"

Kyle's father stepped into the room.

"Kyle, are you okay? Who is that?"

Kyle looked at his father, then looked back at Black Santa.

With a giant smile on his face, he said, "Daddy, it's Sa..."

A sound like thunder tore through the room, knocking the boy to his feet. The sound reverberated off the walls, then there was complete silence. Kyle's ears began to ring loudly in his head. He tried to get to his feet, and noticed something large and soft next to his left slipper. He looked down and saw a red, lumpy mass. Underneath the lump, a pool of dark red liquid was forming and getting bigger by the second.

It took a moment for Kyle to realize the red lump was Santa, and the red liquid was blood, oozing out of the hole in the once-jolly old man's back.

Kyle's father walked over to his bewildered son and picked him up.

"You're all right, son. He won't hurt you anymore." He held the boy tight to his chest. The cold metal of his shotgun barrel pressed against Kyle's neck, giving the boy chills.

As he was carried out of the room, Kyle looked over his father's shoulder at Santa, bleeding profusely on the living room floor, red blood spilling onto the green felt skirt under the Christmas tree.

Kyle tried to speak, but could only stare.

Santa watched the father and son leave the room. He took off his hat and placed it over the wound on his chest. He closed his eyes and with his last breath, mumbled...

"I knew I should have skipped Florida this year."

...then passed away.

-

Merry Christmas!

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

Please Stop Saying That!

Stop it 5 - Cam'ron & Vado

Let's face it, we basically live in a virtual reality. It's cool. I don't mind being watched (hi NSA!) and I don't mind being connected to everyone online, even people I don't know in real life. I like online communication.

What bothers me is a lack of originality. Reading comments on social media sites or comment sections of news stories can be maddening in their repetitiveness, much more so than real life small talk (although that can also melt my brain).

Here are 5 of the comments that make me cringe and need to be stopped before the entire internet gets sucked into a void of unoriginality:


5. "Why is it always about race?" 

(The cousin of "I'm not a racist but..." and best friend of "But my best friend is...")

We all know these, so I won't spend too much time on them. Whenever I see someone actually use one of these lines, I just laugh and hope the person is being ironic. Unfortunately, most of the time they are not, and when you try to explain why the phrases themselves heavily imply racism, the person using them doesn't want to hear it.

These phrases will never go extinct, but I'll still hope for it. Having a black president has only solidified the world view of the people who use these terms. Apparently, one black president in our nation's history is "proof" that "racism is over", so now when any minority claims that he/she is a victim of racism, or when you argue that race still plays a part in every day life for a majority of people, the reply is, "Why is it always about race? You're racist for even bringing up racism!" That's the delusion of all delusions, that somehow people that have benefited from institutionalized racism for centuries, and continue to benefit, are now the victim of racism.

However, there is a point to be made with the comment, "Why does it always have to be about race?" Unfortunately, it's not usually the point people are trying to make when they say it. There are in fact some people who yell "racism!" any time something doesn't go their way, which distracts from real instances of racism. Most of the time, though, when a person claims to be the victim of racism, they are not the ones making it about race, the perpetrator is; the victims are just pointing it out. Victims get accused of "pulling the race card", but they wouldn't have to pull it if it didn't exist in the first place. But it does, so they do, and they shouldn't be blamed for it.


4. "Wake up!" Usually followed by, "sheeple!"

Ok. First off, the whole "sheep" thing is really played out. Pink Floyd had a whole album of animal allegories (basically Animal Farm to rock music) with sheep symbolizing the majority of the population who blindly follow the authoritarian government, and even then some critics were calling it an elementary, derivative metaphor. Turning it into "sheeple" is even worse because now you've taken away the metaphor and merged it with what it actually represents. It's not clever; people just use it because, hey, listen to how cool it sounds when you put one word together with another word! (Admittedly, spork is still one of my favorite words.)

"Wake up!" is thrown out during all sorts of disagreements. It can be used for something as simple as sports (Wake up! The Mets will never be a good team!) or something more serious like gun control (Wake up! If you don't think the government is going to come into your house and take everything from you, you're not paying attention!). When it's something innocuous like sports, it's simply an annoying saying. When it's a more serious matter, it's insulting. The person using it assumes he or she knows more about this particular subject than you. The implication is that if you just knew a little more about the issue and had a better understanding, you would have a different opinion, or more specifically, you would share their exact opinion. It couldn't possibly be that you simply have a different opinion, it must be that you're a moron, asleep to the important issues of the world. Wake up man! Think more like me!

Stop it.


3. "Just sayin..."

Uuuuuuuugh. What are you saying exactly? If you're "just sayin" something, just fuckin say it!

Now granted, I'm guilty of this one, too. It works perfectly, and that's why it's so annoying. You deflect any blame if people catch offense to what you've said, because, hey, you're "just sayin." You don't mean anything by it. You're "just sayin". A lot of people do it for humorous effect or ironically or whatever, but it's getting really old and really not funny. Just tell your joke, there's no need to add a word meme.

Image memes on the other hand...

2. "The greatest ever!"

Ok, this mostly applies to one person on my Facebook feed, who claims a new athlete is the "greatest ever" at a particular sport every day, or that a tv show is "the most amazing show ever", or a fucking brand of cheese dip is "the best dip ever". But a lot of people do it. Now I should clarify, I'm fine with people calling Michael Jordan the greatest ever, or Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure the greatest ever, because that implies a degree of thoughtfulness behind the claim, and there is plenty of evidence to support those claims (I have Bill & Ted's on dvd if you need further proof). My problem is when people say it spontaneously. They see a play on Sportscenter: "Ohhh that was the greatest alley-oop ever!" They see a decent movie and it becomes, "the funniest movie ever!" Just stop it. Take one second to think of another way to describe things. That phrase really doesn't tell me much about the thing you're talking about. Besides, is it really the greatest ever? When you use that term two or three times a week, how can I possibly take you serious?

Greatest movie poster ever? Now we can talk.

And if you're taking about yourself, like when rappers or Randy Moss do it, it's just not really your place to say. Unless you're Danny Brown.

A variation of this phrase is "Best. Thing. Ever." This phrase was originally an ode to a genius piece of comedy, but now it has just been played to death. Stop with the periods between the words. Your implied emphasis isn't that clever. Seriously. Stop. It.


Honorable Mention: "Who the hell is..." 

You see this on every single news story. When there's a story about a celebrity getting arrested, 100% of the time someone will be in the comment section saying, "Who the hell is Gucci Mane?" First off, if you're on the internet asking what or who something is, your absolute idiocy is on display. Stop writing the comment in the comment section, and type it into Google. There's your fucking answer. Now I get that most people do it for humor, but again, the shit isn't funny after 1 billion times. Lindsay Lohan gets arrested again? "Who the hell is Lindsay Lohan?" Well, if you don't know, god bless you. But the fact is, you do know, you're just trying to be a part of the conversation without really thinking or adding anything.


1. "It's just a show/game/movie/celebrity. There are more important things to worry about."

No shit. But did you know that the human brain is actually capable of thinking and caring about more than one thing at a time? It's true!  So if I want to take a break from worrying about Iran's nukes to talk about Brian from Family Guy dying, it's ok! I still care about the nukes, but sometimes you need to think about some less serious matters. That's why we have tv in the first place!

"Why is this even news?" is another variation, and it might be the most aggravating comment on news sites. The thing is, commenters like this may have a point, but they're proving to be assholes if they think the story isn't newsworthy yet click on it and take the time to comment on it. If it's not newsworthy, don't read it. Websites earn money through page views, and you justified their reasoning for writing this particular story by clicking on it. If it's not "newsworthy" don't click on it. Keep it moving. Idiot.

As far as our obsession with celebrities and entertainment, that is nothing new, and it's not an American novelty. Every civilization was obsessed with celebrities; why does anyone think something that is so ingrained into our psyche will change all of a sudden?

This is another comment that actually has a point buried in its pretentiousness somewhere. Yes we need to strike a balance with our interests; as fans, we don't want to turn into Kathy Bates in Misery. There's a line, but it's ok to care about fictional stories and characters. That's all part of the human experience.

This comment can take on various forms and becomes more sinister when it is made in regards to certain news stories. For example, "You're so concerned with Trayvon, what about all the kids dying in Chicago?" Well, I do care about them and when we talk about gun violence and kids dying as a whole, we can talk about that, but for right now I'm talking about this particular case. This type of comment is a way to take the importance out of anything. "Oh you're so upset about that, what about this?" It minimizes everything and it implies quite pompously that we should only be concerned with the absolute worst things in the world, or that you have to somehow deal with every single issue in the world all at once. I can care about more than one thing at a time, it's just very hard to discuss every problem in the world simultaneously; words can only cover so much at a time. Besides, those people never cared about the kids dying in Chicago, they just wanted to divert the conversation away from the complexities of the Trayvon case, and the same thing happens with any difficult issue.

"There are more important things to worry about" is a way to avoid talking about uncomfortable situations, or it's used to discredit and devalue other people's interests. If somebody wants to vent about how horrible The Internship is (holyshitfuckingterriblyhorrible) or if they want to write a note about how sad they are that Lou Reed or Paul Walker died, why do you care? It doesn't take long to write a little post about somebody dying, and if people want to take a minute to pay respect to a person that somehow gave them joy, it shouldn't bother you that much. I understand how annoying it can be to see 35 posts about the death of some mediocre rock star that made music you hated, but if it just happened, and if you're on social media, what do you expect? Social media, especially Twitter, is a snapshot of what people are talking about in the world right now, so of course you will see a lot of posts all at once about something that just happened. Nelson Mandela just died? Expect to see a hundred posts about it for 2-3 days. That's how it works. And sometimes, the things that people talk about aren't all that important, relatively speaking. That's ok. It's healthy to be mentally well-rounded. Thinking about serious issues all the time just leads to depression.

That all being said, let's get our priorities straight people. It can't be all cartoons and Kardashians and Duck Fuckin Dynasty. Those are meant to be distractions in our lives, not the focal point.

How did we get here as a society?

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

The Cat and The Crows

Aesop Rock - Crows II

"I just don't like how they look at me."

Sharon dropped her keys and purse onto the kitchen table, placing her hands palm down on either side.

"You're being ridiculous, Sharon. They're crows, for chris'sake."

"I know what they are, Daniel. Don't patronize me. I don't like the way they look at me."

"Ok, ok. I'll scare them off."

The man walked towards the door in the kitchen that led to the garage. He remembered storing an air-horn in a box somewhere in the garage a few years back. It was part of an elaborate prank that never came to fruition. Maybe he could finally put it to good use.

He found it surprisingly quick; apparently he was more organized than he gave himself credit for. That, or he just didn't own that much stuff. 

With the air-horn in hand, he pressed the button to open the garage door, waited until it rose enough to let him walk under, and headed into the hazy light of the evening hours. He stopped halfway down his driveway and looked towards the large oak tree in his front yard. The sun was setting and darkness was washing over the skyline, but the crows were still visible in the canopy of the tree.

There had to be hundreds of them, rustling the leaves, jostling and jumping from limb to limb. When he was able to identify an individual bird, he was struck by the feeling of being watched, and he diverted his gaze as quickly as possible. He would not accept that his wife was right. She was being ridiculous.

And yet, walking towards the trunk, he could not bring his gaze skyward, instead deciding to inspect the grass in his yard. He really needed to fix the riding mower and take care of his lawn.

He stopped a few feet from the trunk of the oak tree. Lifting his right hand into the air, he pressed down on the air horn's trigger mechanism, releasing a piercing, shrill blast. Instantly, a cloud of black, fluttering wings and feathers filled the sky. For a second, Daniel thought he had begun the apocalypse.

The birds swarmed above his head for a few seconds, then took off in a tight formation, as if a dark rain cloud was drifting rapidly through the sky.

-

Bubula sat at the window and watched intently as the dark cloud of feathers floated away. Her eyes darted from one end of the cloud to the other. A small stream of saliva dripped from the corner of her mouth.

-

"Well, they're gone."

Daniel placed the air-horn on the kitchen table, took off his coat, and sat in his favorite chair. The old, worn down wooden chair that Sharon hated.

"What's for dinner?" he asked.

"Chicken."

Before the word left her mouth, the cat jumped on the kitchen table.

"Boobie! Off the table!" Sharon gently swept the feline away. The cat jumped off the kitchen table and onto the counter next to the fridge.

"Brat," Sharon said while walking to the fridge. She opened it, pulled out a small plate, then took off a small piece of fish and placed it on the counter near the loudly purring tabby.

As Sharon pet the cat and Daniel read the latest news on his smartphone, they heard a loud yet muffled sound, like a quickly passing rainstorm, outside the front windows. Daniel got up and pushed aside the curtains.

"Huh, that was odd. I don't see anything."

The cat had finished her snack and returned to her perch at the window. She stared at something outside, with her little black nose pressed against the glass.

"You see something, Boobie?" Daniel asked, his nose pressed against the glass, too.

"Did the birds come back?" Sharon asked.

"No, I don't see them anywhere," Daniel assured his wife.

"It was probably nothing. Let's eat. Come pour the milk, please."

-

"Daniel!"

His jolted awake. He gathered himself, threw off the covers, and put on his slippers.

"Daniel!"

He walked quickly downstairs to where his visibly shaken wife was standing in the front doorway.

"Come see this."

She turned and led him outside. His first thought was that it was a lovely day, sun shining, a crisp breeze in the air. His second thought was that it smelled like a dumpster behind a Long John Silver's. He looked to his wife, who was holding her nose with one hand and pointing towards the driveway with the other.

His new Audi and her beloved Lexus were completely, comprehensively, absolutely covered in white, black, and green streaks of bird excrement. A barely visible steam rose from the thick veneer of feces on the cars.

"Holy shit."

"Very funny I have to get to work in 15 minutes. I'm not driving around in that, and there's no way it's all coming off in 15 minutes. What am I supposed to do?"

"Ho-lee shit."

"Yes, I get it. Holy shit, haha. You really find this funny?"

"No, I..."

"This is disgusting, Daniel, and I have to get to work!"

He stood motionless, still staring at the stained vehicles. Finally, he told his wife:

"Call a cab. I'll clean them off."

"You have work in an hour."

"I'll call out. This is an emergency. This is an act of war, Sharon."

"Daniel, don't be so dramatic. It was probably that stupid air horn. You literally scared the shit out of them."

"Well that's a pretty specific target area to be a random fear-shit. No, those flying rats are sending a message."

"They're just crows, Daniel. I'll call a cab. Just please be sure to clean my entire car off. Maybe even take it to a professional."

"It'll be just fine. I don't need a professional. You know, I read somewhere that crows are some of the smartest animals in..."

"Hello?" she put her finger up towards her husband. "Sorry sweetie." She turned and walked inside. "Hi. I need a cab? Yes, as soon as possible."

Daniel continued to stare at the carnage in the driveway.

"Holy shit."

-

When Sharon left, Daniel headed to the garage. He first found the bin full of car wash supplies; still in the packaging, even though he bought them over 2 years ago.

After he opened the soap and sponges and towels, he searched for the hose. It was wrapped up in the corner with the 12-option nozzle he received from his father-in-law on his last birthday. He truly meant it when he told the old man he loved it, he just never had the chance to use it.

He attached the nozzle to the hose.

"Sweet."

Maybe this would do the trick on those damn crows, if they ever showed their beaks again, which he highly doubted. Daniel knew this was their coup de grace, a grand, gross finale.

Or not.

When he finally left the garage, after putting on his thigh high fisherman boots, rubber gloves, and safety goggles, the tree in his front yard was once again bustling with black wings and feathers, loud squeaks and whistles cascading back and forth among the green leaves.

He groaned and stomped over to the water spout on the side of his garage. He plugged the hose in, turned the handle, and headed towards the tree.

About ten feet away from the tree, he stopped. He held the hose in front of him with both hands, pointing it skyward toward the crows.

"Nevermore, assholes."

He lowered his hands.

"Wait, that was a raven. Is that the same as a crow? Which are these?"

He raised his hands again, with his finger on the trigger.

"Doesn't matter. All I know is...you're outta here!"

He pressed the trigger. A soft gentle mist sprayed out 5 feet in front of him, creating a rainbow.

"Shit." Daniel turned the nozzle on the hose to the strongest setting and tried again.

A harsh stream jet forth.

"Get out of here!" he screamed, aiming the water at the fluttering mass of wings in the tree branches.

There were some loud squeaks, and a few birds flew off their branches to a higher branch, but there wasn't the mass exodus Daniel was hoping for.

He moved closer. He spotted an individual crow (raven?) in a low hanging branch. He focused the stream on its beady little eyes.

The bird hopped around and turned its back to Daniel, water splashing off its wings. Daniel walked closer, keeping the stream on the back feathers.

He was standing almost directly under the bird, spraying its hind-parts, legs, anything visible, to no effect.

He stopped spraying.

"What the hell is up with you damn birds?"

The crow hopped around again and looked at Daniel. It seemed to be inspecting the man.

But that was ridiculous.

Daniel suddenly noticed the silence. He looked around at the rest of the tree. All the birds were eerily still, eyes fixated on the now very concerned man.

Daniel looked back towards the wet bird. For some reason, Daniel had deemed this the leader. It looked at Daniel and cocked its head, then let out three loud caws.

Daniel swore that he felt the black mass move before he saw it; or maybe he heard the hurricane-like rustling. Whichever sense was set off first, Daniel was turned around and sprinting towards his front door before he could fully process what was happening.

He could feel their presence at his back as he reached for the front door. He swung it open wildly, lunged inside, and slammed the door behind him.

-

An unnatural silence descended upon the house. Daniel slowly backed away towards the kitchen, keeping his eyes fixed on the small glass pane in the front door.

He didn't see or hear anything, but they were out there. He could feel it.

After a few minutes, he walked toward the large bay window. He looked around the front yard and up in the tree.

Nothing.

He kept scanning until finally he saw movement near the tree trunk. The curtains blocked the full view so he pushed them aside and pressed closer to the window.

"Boobie!"

The cat must have slipped out. But how? He opened the door for less than a second.

The cat circled the tree once, then jumped onto the trunk, hanging on with all four paws. Slowly, it made its way upwards. The cat climbed until Daniel could no longer see it through the leaves and branches.

He wanted to run out and coax it down, but even if his fear of the crows wasn't holding him back, he knew his efforts with the cat would be futile. It was a stubborn beast.  He just hoped it knew what it was doing up there.

-

When she reached a section of the treetop where several branches intertwined, she finally stopped climbing. She stretched her body along one of the branches, pressing herself down as low as possible.

Then she waited. She was ready to wait for hours, maybe days. But she knew it wouldn't take that long. Her natural instincts had always been sharp, and she had an uncanny understanding of the flight and nesting patterns of all feathered food.

She waited over 30 minutes in that position. She was about to arch her back to stretch when she heard it. It was very faint, still a good distance away, but it was undeniable: the crows were coming home.

A stream of saliva dripped from the corner of her mouth.

-

The yellow cab pulled up to the driveway. The driver turned his radio down and checked his phone.

"237 Fontaine St.," he read from the screen.

He looked at the house.

"237," he read off the front door. "This is it." He pressed his hand down heavily on the horn five times, keeping the pressure on the horn longer and longer each time.

-

The cat looked down at the yellow metal beast making all the noise. If the birds were scared off, she'd know where to take out her fury.

-

"Ok," she said as she walked downstairs. Daniel was in his worn out chair, looking rather worn out himself. "That's the cab. I'll call you for a ride later."

He jumped out of his chair. "Wait!"

She looked back at him as she opened the front door. "What?"

"They...it's just..."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Ok. Well, please get the cars clean. And clean off the driveway too. I don't want to have to step in it."

"Sure."

She walked outside.

-

The cat watched as the front door opened. The long brown haired human who always smelled like ham strolled out.

Humans always got in the way.

The fluttering, cawing, black cloud drew nearer.

-

The cab honked again, slowly and loudly.

-

She yelled from the front door, "All right! I'm right here! I see you, and you see me. Jesus."

As she strode toward the taxi, she heard what at first sounded like a small plane flying overheard. She turned to look towards the sky, and the sun was blocked out by a fluttering black mass.

"Daniel! I thought you got rid of..." Before she could finish, the cloud was swarming around her.

Crows flew by her head, brushing her face and hair with their dark wings.

"Gahhh get them off! Ahhhhhh"

-

Daniel watched in horror, from inside the house, as the cloud engulfed his screaming wife.

"This will not be good."

-

The cabbie took his hand off the horn to watch the scene unfolding in front of the house. He had never seen so many birds in one place. They were flying around the woman like a feathered tornado. Her screams made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

This was not in the work manual.

He shifted into drive and sped off.

-

She watched as the human spun and swung her arms wildly. She felt genuine concern that the human would scare off the birds. The tasty, tasty birds.

She couldn't let that happen.

She knew she had to act fast, quickly crawling to a lower branch. A few crows were fluttering in and out of the lower branches, still more focused on the frantic human than finding a resting spot.

She spotted one crow perched on a low branch. She leaped down from one branch to another, then launched herself the last few feet, landing next to the unsuspecting bird. As the branch swayed downward with her weight, she looked into the crow's eyes. Before the terror could even register, she lunged forward and grabbed the bird's head with her teeth. Her momentum sent them off the branch, hurtling toward the ground.

They landed directly next to the human, the cat on all fours, with the bird's limp body hanging from its mouth, head hanging at its side.

She dropped the bird at the human's feet.

-

Sharon looked at the cat and the bloodied, broken bird on the ground, and let out a blood curdling scream, running towards the front door.

She didn't even notice that the black cloud had left.

-

Daniel watched his wife sprint towards the door. He opened it to let her in and moved to the side.

"Jesus! Jesus, Daniel did you see that?"

"No, what happened honey?"

"The birds! The damn birds! And then the cat! Look!"

They walked to the front bay window and peered out.

The cat sat in the front lawn. It looked at the couple for a few seconds, then went back to licking its blood stained paws.

-

The summer months came and went, with no more sign of the crows.

The body of the dead crow remained on the lawn. The head was nowhere to be found.

-

"Honey, I really don't want to see that dead bird every morning. Can you please do something with it?"

"Sweetie, we talked about this," he replied. "The dead crow is a warning, a reminder that this isn't a safe place for them."

"Do you honestly think that 's why they haven't come back?"

Daniel thought for a moment.

"Absolutely."

He sat on his favorite chair, where the cat was stretched out on the armrest.

"All thanks to this little girl, right?" He buried his face in the fur on her belly.

The cat purred and licked its paws.

Daniel noticed something hanging off the pad of the cat's right foot. He pulled it off. It was a small black feather.

He looked at the cat. The cat looked back at him.

Daniel could have sworn it winked at him before going back to licking its paws.

-

*Inspired (very loosely) by a true story*

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.