All right, anybody know where I can get a little hat that would fit a parakeet? It could be a parakeet-sized bowler, or a parakeet-sized cowboy hat. Oh, it could even be a parakeet-sized beanie with a propellor on it. But I need a parakeet hat, and I need it now. Dig?
See, a lot of people think dogs are man’s best friend, and to these people I say, “Ever spent much time with a parakeet? Probably not, asshole.” I’m very standoffish when it comes to this. All I know is, my parakeet helped me out of a huge jam the other day, and so, to repay him, I wanna get him a little hat to put on his little parakeet head.
What happened was, I was taking my weekly “Tune In, Turn On, Drip Out” bubble bath, during which I read Timothy Leary essays and eat Nilla wafers. So, I was in my zone, gettin’ all antiestablishment, when there came a knock on the door. “Porter, are you in there?” Shit! It was Mrs. B, my landlady, and I was way late on the rent. I figured I’d be OK as long as I didn’t make a sound. Just then, a car honked, I turned suddenly and knocked over the Nilla wafers!
“I know you’re in there, Mason!” I had to think fast, and yet, I was physically incapable of thinking fast due to an old football injury. Suddenly, I heard a noise. A tiny pittering of feet. I cracked open the door, looked out of the bathroom, and there he was. My parakeet, Sqeakers! He was leaned up against the door, and giving me the thumbs up sign.
“Porter ain’t here, Mrs. B. But I’ll tell him youse came by.”
I was shocked. First: my parakeet could talk! Second: he had a sort of Italian accent (I had him pegged for a Spaniard)! Third: he had thumbs apparently because he had given me a thumbs up sign!
“Then who the hell is this?” screamed Mrs. B.
Squeakers motioned toward me; he was trying to say, “I don’t know what to do next.” I motioned back toward him, trying to say, “I have an old football injury and am now stupid.” He didn’t understand my motion, but he had to say something.
“Uh, yeah, his cousin Sal, I been in college for a while, so youse haven’t seen me a lot.”
“What college?”
“Uh… Parakeet College… ?” Squeakers was running out of ideas.
“Parakeet College? Where the hell is that?”
“Uh.. no, no…. not Parakeet College…. Paa… rrraaaa….. Paarraaa…. Princeton! Princeton! I was at Princeton! That’s where I friggin’ was, all right?”
Good save.
So, Mrs. B bought the whole thing. I was saved, and I didn’t have to worry about dealing with her again for a looong looong time. Well, a day. But it was the best day of my life. Well, it was average, but I spent it with my talking parakeet, so back off! We talked all night, me and Squeakers. He told me how much he really loves bird seed. He thinks he may have a problem. He told me of his troubles with the ladies. For one thing, he never leaves my apartment all day, and, I don’t know if you know my apartment, but it’s severely lacking in swinging parakeet females. And really late at night, after we’d gone through a whole tub of ice cream and three Keet Treat Bars, he really opened up.
“Ah, Jesus, you know, Porter, what really gets me, is dat I’m nearly ten yeahs old, and… well, I think I’m starting to lose some feadders up top, you know?”
He was scared he was becoming bald. I told him the first thing I’d do was go out and buy him a little parakket hat, so he wouldn’t feel embarrassed. He reached over, touched my arm, and softly said, “Thank you.” It was the most emotional thing I’d ever witnessed. Never before had another living thing been so utterly open with me. Never before had someone stood before me so vulnerable, so real. And so I did what I’d been waiting all night to do.
I caught him in my hand and stuck him back in the cage. How the hell did he get out anyway? Freakin’ parakeet. Jesus. He probably crapped all over the floor.
What? What? I’m getting him the freakin’ hat, what do you want?