Now, there's a title for a book, a really long book. I have an item to contribute to it. Not involving me, of course. That would be ridiculous, to think that I have ever, am now, or will in the future engage in any act that could fall under the rubric of "male idiocy" (the skeptical laughter from cyberspace is already ringing in my ears). No, this is about the bird I like to affectionately call Bastard Robin, or even nicer names, depending upon how many tons of bird poop I find splashed on my Volvo wagon each day.
I'm no expert on bird behavior, but I believe these are the basic facts. Bastard Robin wants to father some offspring. It isn't enough that he screw some sweet young female robin. In his delusional, and seemingly infinitesimal, robin brain, he is determined to be the only male in the whole wide world screwing a sweet young female robin, so all the baby robins everywhere will carry on the genetic heritage of Bastard Robin. Hence, his singleminded determination to rid the neighborhood of other male robins. Now that makes some sense, I guess. But now the male idiocy kicks in, stimulated by what a character on Ally McBeal was fond of calling the man's "dumb stick."
In searching about for other male robins, so he can kick their feathered ass, Bastard Robin always comes upon himself first thing in the morning. He (or they; I can't tell them apart) used to wake us up by fluttering against our bedroom window, trying to chase away that robin S.O.B. he could see when he peered at the glass, and who bore such a strking resemblance to himself, and who mirrored his every move, the crafty kung fu fighter. We put shades over the window and carefully drew them down every night, believing that this had solved the Bastard Robin problem.
Actually, it just moved the problem. Now he has found the windshield and rear view mirrors of my (previously clean) car. When I drive into the carport, I often see him flying off from a rafter, where he has been lying in wait for Bastard Robin2 to return. And yes!, there he is, just as before, on the other side of the windshield and mirror, taunting with his antics that are so similar to Bastard Robins'. He thinks, "I am so angry! I am so frustrated! I can never reach Bastard Robin2! What should I do? Why, I will poop! And poop, and poop, to show Bastard Robin2 just who is the Biggest Baddest Robin around here."
At least, this is how it seems to me. If there are any robinthologists who have a more accurate insight into Bastard Robin's brain, I would appreciate hearing how they see things. Know your enemy, that's my motto. I could cover my car with a tarp, but that seems like too much trouble. And then I'd have to hose the poop off of the tarp, which would be harder than taking the Volvo to the car wash.
To end on a broader note about male idiocy, several years ago I remember talking to someone about this sort of robin behavior (we've been suffering from a succession of Bastard Robins since we moved to Spring Lake Estates). I was trying to convince this guy that, compared to humans, birds obviously were way down on the dim end of the male animal intelligence scale, since they were incapable of distinguishing a two-dimensional image from reality. He simply replied: "What about a Playboy centerfold?" I walked away. Argument lost, and getting too close to home.