Do you have any idea how much of an asshole you are?
I mean, woodpeckers in general are the assholes of the bird world, but you’re their emperor. Every day it’s Good Morning Desert! with your atonal squawk that deafens me like a Jet Ski ringtone, even through double-pane windows.
And that pecking on the metal part of the chimney thing at 5 a.m.? Nonstop? For a half-hour? What kind of a sadistic waste of your Darwinian adaptation is that? I know you’re beating the bill to let every bird know that this is your joint just in case some broad comes by, but no female in her right mind is up that early. And trust me, if she’s hot for you, she’ll come flying in first 10-20 seconds or so.
You sound too desperate and even I–a human–know that’s a huge turnoff in your avian world. I don’t blame every feathered frail from here to Yuma for turning tail when they see you. Maybe if you spent some time in quiet contemplation you’d figure out why you haven’t had a mate for the past three years. May I suggest you pee on something instead? It works pretty damn well for the coyotes.
And I know that you know the hummingbird feeder is called a hummingbird feeder because it exists to feed hummingbirds— birds that hum and are really little and can’t eat the birdseed or peck on the quail block or drink from the birdbath that I fill every friggin’ day just so you can drink and wash off your disgusting lice. But despite the thousands of times I tried to chase you off by flapping my arms like a Harris Hawk or growling like a Bobcat, you refused to move away from the sugar water. Yes, you’re an addict who can’t stop hittin’ the beak, which is why your last mate left you. And if you had any friends you would have found that out way before now.
Have you spent at least a feather of time wondering why I stopped hanging out on the porch in the morning, even though it’s my only slim window of reasonable temperatures this time of year? I doubt it, because you’re too busy giving me and every other living thing in the desert an upturned middle finger.
You should thank me for telling you this because the Ladder-Backs have been thinking it for years, but don’t have the balls to tell you because they’re half your size. I wouldn’t be surprised if even the Pileated ‘peckers in Jersey know about you. I hope they do, so they’ll come west and kick your ass so hard you’ll turn into a doll’s feather bed.
Why am I even wasting my time? You’re a narcissist. And no, I’m not going to tell you what that is. You’re just going to have to look it up in the DSM-5 or ask a crow or something. Or stuff your fluffy ass into your lonely Saguaro hole and never come out. I’m beyond caring what the fuck you do.
–She Who Lives in That Really Big Nest