The Primordial Ooze Smells like Popcorn

I think it is safe to assume we've all kicked at the pigeons at one point in our lifetime, both figuratively and literally. They are so hopelessly stupid, so uncouth in their gait, so terribly devoid of urban chic that it actually gives me pains in my stomach. I've been told I eat like a bird, but based on my usual consumption of foodstuffs on a day-to-day basis, I don't see the comparison. And besides, I would rather not be associated with such dirty creatures.

And when I think of dirty creatures, my memory calls forth a specific bastion of barefoot beasties: the beach. Nothing gives me such displeasure as the whole experience of wallowing in the filthy sand; needless to say, countless others have also rolled their gelatinous bodies between each grain of miniscule matter. And each time I press dainty toe to the desert waste, I can't help but assume that I have intimately come into contact with one of these aforementioned cretins through a sort of post-mortem celestial linkage. I'm stepping upon the same rocky terrain as my foolish forefathers have tumbled across. Though I realize that this should be, in essence, a heartfelt moment of a historical relevance and reverence, I just don't receive such a vibe.

Thank goodness for the gulls. Though they be rouges of the climate-little more than pickpockets and scavengers, to be brutal-they are somewhat aesthetically romantic in their ways. I cannot help but chuckle with respect as they slyly snatch a peanut butter sandwich from right under my nose.

"You incorrigible fiends," I would sigh. "Yours is an existence filled to the brim with haughty tricks and spotty pride."

The seagulls would wait patiently on their smooth sedimentary thrones, eyeing me with a careful regard whilst maintaining an air of indifference. It was all a trick, you see; they were pretenders. Beggars in rich clothing, penniless but dressed in fine velvet. They would sit and laugh of their troubles, playing a fine ruse on anyone who cared to hear their merry joke. Too late, though, when the poor soul realizes that he has become the seagulls' punchline. To that extent, I have come to recognize the gull with a kind, dignified relationship. We both understand the rules of the game; it shall always be this way, and so long as we both play fair-as dictated by the Immortals-then all shall be at peace.

Even in the entropy brought by the somewhat devilish fowl of the ocean, there is a process that eventually becomes a cyclic harmony. Though I may never outfox the primitive birds, I wouldn't have it any other way. They deserve anything they can get. After all, in a world dominated by Man, shouldn't we give credit where credit is due? It has become a man eat man eat dog eat fish situation here-and we don't always appreciate a salmon delivered by bill of fare. If seagulls had knowledge of the Federal Reserve, I am sure they would have divined a way to purchase pants. Why pants? Well, to keep their wallets someplace safe, of course. Most birds don't have pockets; and those that are fortunate enough to possess them scarcely have sufficient space to squirrel away their savings. I doubt that they would explore stock options, either.

And even if they somehow cracked up the courage to purchase a fish filet, I assume I am in a majority when I say that most fishmongers don't take kindly to customers ranking so low in the food chain. Seagulls usually don't get much respect nowadays. But how about bears? I'll bet you anything that the fishermen at the docks would be quivering in their galoshes at the sight of such a mighty animal. A bear would have no problem buying fish. I would surmise that their rather ferocious repertoire might have something to do with that-but I could say the same about the Cossacks.

The Western Gull of the United States usually lives until its 15^th birthday-however, they have been known to proliferate for as long as twenty-five years. That's not very long; but then again, most birds don't have such an acute sense of their biological clock, do they? An average death of fifteen years is hardly what we'd call a hearty lifespan. The good die young, so they say. And if you need any proof to substantiate that statement, just look at tortoises. They live a drab, meaningless existence void of any Kafkaesque magic or medieval adventure. A tortoise is a tortoise; and they live to ages of one hundred. How unfair is it that the grand dreamers of this world are so jealously snatched so soon? I would readily unleash all kinds of insults and jeers upon the tribadistic Fates that convene in secret-but unfortunately, those ladies have pretty good lawyers, and I'd be up the creek if I slandered them. I mean, have you even seen a plaintiff get roasted by a thunderbolt? It's not pretty, I can assure you.

Most of the Western Gulls are rarely met outside of their domains-one of which happens to be the grim island of Alcatraz. Formally referred to as "the Rock" by both prisoners and keepers alike, is there anything more harrowing than the sight of that concrete fortification? Just the knowledge of the tortured loneliness that was kept firmly betwixt those walls makes me shiver. Not as scary as the Deinonychus, though. That's an extinct dinosaur. It really has nothing to do with my point; I just think it sounds neat. Deinonychus, through a rigorous Greek translation, means "terrible claw," calling attention to the means the reptile utilized to kill its prey. Again, this really has nothing to do with my overall statement( whatever that is) but I think it sounds pretty interesting.

Even more interesting is the fact that we've come to the point where we imprison others and bind them in chains. I'd like to turn my back on this, but it's difficult to do so. I'd probably be right in assuming that you feel no sympathy for those who were locked up on "the Rock" itself. After all, they must have done something horrible to be confined in the first place, no? Well, that's basic instinct for you. You can't get off on animal instinct without being punished for it.

And those damned seagulls can. They'll do as they want, pleased as punch whenever they manage to piss you off. Why can't I be like that? If I stole someone's sandwich, I'd get belted one hard in the nose-enough to break cartilage and shatter bone, which doesn't sound pleasant and likely feels even more unpleasant. So what happened on the path of evolution? Did we lose a sense of the ridiculous? Or have we simply become more stoic in thought and deed?

From the primordial ooze we hath been born; and so have our winged brothers. Yet the prime difference between us lies in the very same cosmic matter that we first stepped from. Somehow, the gift of our conscience is a crutch; we've been hiding from the scene for too long.

Let's make a pact, friends: in the next hour or so, we'll make do with out primal desires and steal ourselves some sandwiches. We'll give those birds something to talk about.

We are really quite lucky-we've not only a terrific lifespan, but also the power to carry ourselves through rigorous styles. That's more than I can say for the turtles. So let's show those birds who's the boss. Let's put on a show for awhile. Let the gulls partake in popcorn and view us as if we were a majestic feature-length film.

I'm promising that you'll get top-billing. It's a role you simply cannot refuse.