I’ve discovered that when one is in the crowded parking lot of a grocery store loading the goods into the trunk of the car, and a bird flying overhead shits into the hair of one’s wife, leaving a strange brownish-orange dung wad tangled among her golden tresses, one’s sympathy and pity are not effectively and adequately expressed through doubled-over, heaving laughter.
No doubt. Feh.
Having a bird shit bomb land on ones’ head is supposed to be good luck.
You know it’s gems like this, and nicks like Pismonque that I need to hear at 0700 to help me get through the day.
And, no, there is no correct counter-reaction to that scenario. No matter what you did, you’d have lost out dude.