Home > Scary Red Sox Rants, Sox Game Recaps > The shithawks are watching.

The shithawks are watching.

I think this one was my fault guys.

Sorry. First pitch, ball. A-Gonz, dropping a foul ball, third pitch, 1-0- Milwaukee. Fourth pitch. 2-0, Milwaukee.

Remember the second inning? Lester literally feeds a ball into the baseball dirt?

This isn’t Jon Lester. This isn’t our team.

Kottaras being helpful? Kottaras getting a homerun? Does that sound like the Kottaras WE know?

Lester pulling this crap when we have NO PAPELBON?

I’m telling you, this isn’t baseball.

This, ladies and gentleman, is a shitstorm.

 

See that “S” word I just dropped? If you don’t like it, I’d skip today’s shithawk lesson, k?

Ever make a joke turn into a reality?

You know, not really. But really.

Like, do you ever repeat something so much that it becomes true? Like really? Really true?

See, a writer I work with watches some Canadian show about trailer parks that references “shithawks.”

(As in: “I’ll be watching you like a shithawk.”)

There are several definitions of “shithawk.” I know. I looked it up in the Urban Dictionary two days into the joke.

But, in this context, a “shithawk,” is this hawk, right, that flies all over the office dropping, well, shit.

(you didn’t know I was an artist, did you?)

See, when work piles up. When they change a deadline without telling you. When you’re twenty minutes after deadline and that senator decides to call you back.

When the power flickers. When your car stalls. When you lock your keys in your car. When the batteries fall out of your digital recorder, no matter how much scotch tape you put on the hinge. When the computer shuts down just as you’ve sketched out that terrible article on extra-territorial jurisdiction.

Oh, and when your copy editor decides to “correct” extra-territorial jurisdiction and make the Boone community think there’s suddenly a special jurisdiction for extra-terrestrials? It’s the shithawk.

Shithawks LOVE copy editors.

Sometimes the shithawks don’t even do anything. They just sit there. There on the wall. Watching you. Watching you and just waiting to shit.

And you’re so paranoid because of all the shit you typically have to deal with, that you can’t get anything done. You know. Out of paranoia. Their crazy eyes. Their crazy, beady eyes and their evil little shitclaws (also called shithooks, as in, “damn it, Lauren, they’ve got their shithooks in me today.”)

A flock of shithawks? That’s called a shitstorm (as in, “I can’t even talk to you in this shitstorm.”). They’re quite loud.

Going to work?

Going to the shitfactory.

Sometimes we can hear them buzzing around the office. So much shit. We call it “bullshit,” you know, as in, “Damn it, Lauren! This job is bullshit!”

But it’s actually hawk shit. But it’s a lot. So you see why we make the comparison to bulls.

Sometimes, I find feathers at my desk.

Really.

Today I found two.

It started out as a great joke.

And then in our delirium, it became a little serious.

Sometimes, at 2 in the morning when I’m still working on copy for the Friday paper, I think I see one. You know. Just in the corner of my eye. It whizzes away, of course. But not before doing something terrible. Something shitty. Something like causing my notebook to self destruct or drying up every ink pen in my desk when I have an interview.

Today, the story got a new chapter.

Where do shithawks come from?

I’ll tell you.

See, deep in the poo ocean (there’s a poo ocean. Do I really need to spell everything out for you?) is a creature, a mystically awesome (as in, capable of evoking awe, this is not a complimentary use of the word awesome) sea-beast known as Poo-seidon. I have a picture of Poo-seidon. But it is at my office. So you will have to wait until Monday.

Poo-seidon, see, has a magical poo-crystal. It’s called the great looking-poo, but you don’t need to know what it’s called. That doesn’t advance the story. Anyway, he looks into this poo-crystal at all the happy people. All the productive people. All the people getting things done, and with remarkable efficiency. All those journalists out there naïve enough to love their jobs.

Then he raises his poo-triton (it’s quite powerful. And shiny) and takes a feather (I don’t know what kind of feather. Probably a sea bird. Like that albatross from “The Rescuers”) and raises it over his head (like Triton does in the “Little Mermaid”) and summons a poo-nado.

At first, the poo-nado is really terrible. Sucking up all the productivity in its path (journalists near and far tremble with dejavuz when reading this part of the story), the poo-nado looks like a whizzing wall of poo.

Then, suddenly, the winds settle, solidifying. Individual feathers rise up from the shit. A desperate, screeching, banshee sound echoes your eardrums as wings start to emerge. The weak lose hearing all together at this point.

And then, like a phoenix, the shithawk erupts from the chaos, its smelly claws curling toward you with a ferocity known only in mythology, as squiggly gray waves (you know, the kind that surround Pigpen in Charlie Brown) halo the beast.

It’s ALIVE!

Then the cycle repeats itself. You know, until you have a shitstorm. That’s a flock of shithawks, in case you weren’t paying attention earlier.

Shithawks typically travel in shitstorms.

Anyway, I thought the shithawks were confined to the office. They’re happy here. They have lots of souls to drain of hopes and dreams. We do, after all, have five reporters in our newsroom. But I didn’t take into account what would happen when their food supply finally ran out.

See, that’s what’s happening.

It’s budget season. Wayyyyyy too many opportunities for the shit –ahem- to hit the fan.

And when a shithawk hits a fan, it divides into a thousand individual shithawks.

Anyway, as our hopes and dreams fade in the office, the shithawks grow restless. Their food supply dwindling, they have to look for other sources of hopes, dreams and productivity.

They turn their lonely eyes to Boston.

—–

Sorry, guys. I think this one is our fault.

I invested in a pellet gun. But they’re wily little shitters….

I’m really sorry. I should have warned you. I just thought Boston was too far away for the little shitters.

It’s a shithawk migration. No one is safe.

—-

More evidence- I worked most of today (shithawks LOVE it when I work)- worked the Appalachian Roller Girls FIRST EVER HOME BOUT. They are undefeated.

Sorry, were undefeated. Until I covered their match up today. And the shithawks followed me. Sorry, ARG! You looked great in your fishnets! And are, as always, unparalleled in awesomeness.

~L

PS- This made me feel a little bit better. Thanks, FDA. Kevin Youkilis is my favorite human.

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  1. June 19, 2011 at 8:53 am

    I think those birds have been flying around my workplace, too. The whole month. And you get to cover roller derby. You have the coolest job ever.

  1. June 21, 2011 at 10:56 pm
  2. June 26, 2011 at 1:39 am
  3. June 28, 2011 at 3:00 pm
  4. June 30, 2011 at 12:39 am

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