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."