Bombs Away!

Bombs Away!

"So, Mister Randall," asked the ambulance attendant as she dabbed at the oozing cut with a sterile gauze pad, "can you tell me how this happened?"

"I don't know, exactly, and thanks again for stopping.  Something hit me on the head - hard; I think a gull dropped that," Randall replied, pointing to an oddly shaped bottle lying in the grass just off the sidewalk.  "Birds don't like me, or maybe I just have bad luck around them," Randall replied.

"What do you mean?"

"Did you know that Denver lies along a principal route of the Central Flyway for migrating birds?" he asked.  "There's lots of grass and open land around so, for a couple of months twice a year, there are geese everywhere."

"Yeah," she said, "I've seen them flying formation.  They're beautiful."

"True," Randall agreed, "but they leave droppings everywhere and there are gulls, too, not just geese. I get off the bus just down the street and walk the rest of the way to work.  I keep an eye on the pavement, but the birds have no problem with a mid-air waste dump.  After three direct hits ruined a good winter coat last year, I bought a cheap plastic umbrella to use during migration seasons."

"I think a gull mistook that perfume bottle for a clam and dropped it, hoping it would hit a rock and open up for dinner," he finished.  "It hit me, instead."

"Well, judging from the bottle's size, the bird must have thought it hit the mother lode," the medic commented as she flicked a feather from his jacket and stood up.  "There, that butterfly bandage is all set.  You ought to head to the Emergency Room and see about a couple of stitches, though.  Good luck, Mister Randall."