My desire was to write a piece about an old lady lining her birdcage with my writings. This is what happened.

Professor Penwose, Kiwi

Good Evening,

I must give advanced warning, this article has a bit of spice and should not be read by those with good imaginations and weak stomachs.

I received a review from a woman who said she prints hard copies of my articles for her “Friend” to read.
I was humbled yet proud.
I hacked her server and found she lives just down the lane so I knocked on her door. The door popped open and she sat before me in her bloomers, (The spice I spoke of.)
I saw that she was in a wheelchair and she asked me for help. I started to push her but she pushed me. She told me to, “Yank the crank.”
I looked down and saw she was actually riding a riding lawnmower. I pulled the cable starter and nothing happened.
“Yank it again.”
I pulled again, still nothing happened.
She called me a wimp and pulled it herself. A loud “Veroom” engulfed the room.

In the middle of the living room was a huge birdcage with a big bird in it. She sped in its direction like a racecar driver. I ducked for cover as she was about to annihilate it, however just in the knick of time she hit the brakes and shut it off.
Silence fell like a brick!

The house had a musty smell of must. She invited me to sit down but I saw there was no place to do so. All available furniture was unavailable due to high heaps of newspapers stacked helter-skelterly. I was thinking out loud that she appeared to be a hoarder but cut myself short of the last word for fear she might hear me and think I thought something different.

I said I was honored that she printed my articles for her friend. She became fidgety. I saw that her bird was a parrot. I remarked that I used to have one myself and asked what its name was?
She said she named hers PollyGamy after her husband who had three other wives.
I asked where her husband was?
She said, “Still dead, in the backyard.”
I edged closer to the front.
I was about to tell her my bird was crazy, but prehindsight told me it was not a good subject to bring up.

She became very nervous when I asked to see the bird and blocked me when I walked toward it. I diverted her by asking for a drink of water. She revved-up the mower and rode to fetch it. I quickly looked into the cage. The Parrot was staring down as if in a trance, and its beak was mumbling softly…It was reading!

I looked at the floor and saw my printed articles lining the cage in an ongoing display of ultimate disrespect. He was obviously her “Friend.”

I was beside myself, and so was she. She had suddenly and quietly appeared beside me. She said she was letting the water run so it would clear up. I asked where her mower was? She said she only rode it while cutting the grass.
I asked why, with all the newspapers, she would use my works for her bird’s toilet?
She said it did not like News.

All at once The Bird spread its wings and gave out a blood chilling parrot scream that caused hairs all over my body to stand on end.

“He’s ready,” She said.

A single drumbeat signaled his intro. He started reciting the articles. I had never heard my words spoken by a parrot before and found it exhilarating. Words I had written mere days before were now being bellowed as though by a great orator. The power, the feeling, the majesty of his deliverance gave new meaning to the phrase tear-jerking.
The feeling and power within him increased and magnified until he reached a crescendo and lowered his head into his enveloping wings.

“I MUST HAVE THAT BIRD!”

“He’s not for sale.”

“Any price! Just name it!”

“He’s just an ordinary bird.”

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND? THAT BIRD IS A GENIUS! I MUST HAVE HIM! THE WORLD MUST HAVE HIM!”

She shook her head and once again stated he was just an ordinary bird.

“Ordinary bird? That bird is no ordinary bird. He’s a magnificent orator.”

“He is not an orator,” She said, “He is a parrot. He mimics orators. That’s what parrots do, they mimic. He pretends to be an orator.”

“Oh!…Nevermind!”

I don’t think this was a dream because I laid in bed awake as inspirations popped into my head, however when I looked at the clock three hours had passed so I must have been asleep?

I’m thinking I may have forgotten to take my medication?
I’ll take twenty tomorrow.

Penwose Out,
Bye George
NoPo8

My desire was to write a piece about an old lady lining her birdcage with my writings. This is what happened.