Do you see this chubby, dead-eyed tuberculotic mongrel-thing. This is some kind of sparrow, and it spends its day divided equally between spitting virulent phlegm at my window, screaming, and releasing heinous jets of diseased filth from whatever orifice into which it doesn’t shovel stolen food.
This compact ball of ill-intent and oily feathers moves from victim to victim by hurling itself through the air like hot rotten meat blasted from a circus cannon. It finds itself drawn for whatever reason to a tree by my window, and it clings to the branches with raptor talons. Once these feathered spheres of old-meat-smell have alighted on my innocent tree, they stare into my window with their lifeless black hemispheres–there is no soul within. Then they lean, putting the full corpulence of their body into the motion, and hack heavy and wet onto my pristine glass–the monsters. Between wet coughs, there is an occasional off-key whistle which someone more sympathetic might call birdsong, but I think it is more of a diseased shrieking.
And they shit everywhere! I have not had the displeasure to see one of these noisome mongrels opened, but I’m positive their internal organs are a rusty harmonica, a ripped Ziploc bag of old fruit, and a straight tube from its impotent triangle-face to its cavernous sphincter so its waste can just flow unimpeded onto whatever is nearby. It leaves a sickly puddle where no life can grow for 100 years like an ancient conqueror salting the land of a sacked city.
A creature of this evil design almost proves evolution false because what but an intelligent–and cruel–mind could contrive such a masterpiece of filth.