The Golden Psycho once fancied parakeets. When he moved back in with us during building of his first house, he brought 3 of the infernal things with him. I didn't like them – they were loud and filthy, crapping everywhere. He had this hanging lamp they liked sit on that was just covered with bird shit. It almost made that corn log thing look like cotton candy. Almost.

I was not inclined to handle the animals. They were nasty and I didn't like their weird feet and little claws. Whistling at 'em and offering treats was plenty fine for me.

John did not concur with my position.

A Lofty Goal 
He insisted I allow one of the damn things, I think his name was J.J., to perch on my finger. I declined. Next thing I knew, I was in a wrestling-style headlock as we struggled for control of my arm, then my index finger. He was going to set the world right by forcing my finger and his parakeet to become one if it was the last thing he done did, period.

So, picture this - A man, age 24, is tormenting a 10 year old in a very spirited attempt to force interaction with his bird. The child is screaming bloody murder, with long, mournful wails. The birds, terrified by all the commotion, are also vocalizing alarm in that lovely way only they can do.

Dear readers, this is the picture of sheer lunacy right here.

I fought like a wildcat, but he shut off my airway, which modified my attitude toward the bird. OK, let's give it a shot, I guess. I extended my finger, groaning and wheezing. He eased his hold on me and guided my hand into the cage toward a seriously rattled bird.

"Touch your finger to his fucking chest," he growled. That surprised me, for the scumbag was not a big F-bomb dropper. That's for the best - nobody likes a foulmouthed child-abusing psycho, right? Who needs that?

I complied and the bird reluctantly mounted my shaking finger. Immediately, I flip-flopped and withdrew my finger, screaming “NOOOO!!!!” like a woman in a horror film. The struggle began anew, and in the ruckus the bird cage was accidentally knocked from the table.

One of the Worstest Scenes I Ever Done Seed 
It was quite the scene. Bird seed and water flew about, the toys made a grand crash, three birds were screaming like crazy, and I was gasping in near-shock, terrified. Just as the birds leapt from the cage and flew about the room, still screaming, Psycho whalloped me upside the head pretty damn hard, knocking me to the ground.

I just laid there for a moment, looking at the sideways bedroom. Long before, it had been Neila's room. We spent more pleasant times in there than I can remember and the room itself stuck in my head as a safe, fun, pleasant place. That was no longer the case. He told me to get out of his sight. Stunned from the blow, I complied.

That is the lone time I recall John actually hitting me. His methods spanned the range from epic passive aggression to campaigns of threats and terror to torturous paralyzing wrestling holds to horrifying drowning in the pool...but not hitting. I mean, one has to draw a line somewhere, right?

When Mom and Dad returned, he told her I'd spitefully knocked the cage over and he'd merely pushed me as a sound response to my depraved act against his innocent pets. I pleaded my case, but Mom was unreceptive, very disappointed that “I'd kicked the poor birds off the table.” Dad seemed skeptical, but, fully emasculated by Mom, he kept his mouth shut.

Upon being directed to clean up the mess I'd allegedly made, I told them all to kiss the hell outta my ass and rode my bike, in an apocalyptic state of distress, to Neila's for refuge. They weren't there, so I went to the woods across the street from my house and gathered my wits.

Do They Have Birds There? 
The next day, thoroughly embittered, I badgered Mom about the injustice I'd suffered until she flipped her lid and broke down sobbing, swearing to me that she was going to call the State School for Boys and have me taken away forever. That scared me to death and as a result I became withdrawn and cooperative for a few weeks, belying the tornado of agony inside.

It was a terrible feeling. I'd never seen Mom cry before, and she was making up for that with quite a display. I tried to comfort her, apologizing profusely, but it seemed almost like I wasn't even there to either of us. It's hard to describe.

It would have been interesting if I had indeed lost my home over John's fucking birds. Regardless of that possibility, though, one thing's for damn sure - it takes a rare man to spawn that much turmoil and woe merely by acquiring some small pets. What kind of man is willing to terrorize both a child and his birds pursuing such a paltry goal?

OK, Then - That's It. 
After this incident and another outstanding one, I ceased to recognize the authority of Mom, Dad, John, or pretty much anyone, and was well along the road to being a troubled and troublesome lad with little faith in anything. I did as European parliaments and brought forth a no-confidence vote against the administration. Years of reckless behavior I was lucky to have survived soon followed.

To this day, just hearing a parakeet makes me grind my teeth.

Still, I wish them well ;)

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