10.04.2009 09:23 - All Parrots Are Bastards.
The parrot who lives round the corner from me is no longer my friend.
For about the past three years, every spring and summer, the owner of this African grey parrot has put him out on the balcony during sunny weather. Every morning and evening, if he's out there, he whistles hello, and I whistle back.
That was until this evening.
I was walking past the building, when I was overtaken by a girl jogger in tight jogging pants. This might sound fun, but if there were fashion police, she'd be number one on the list for crimes against lycra. Her arse cheeks were bobbing up and down like Rainer Calmund chewing a toffee.
Just then, my little friend the parrot let out a class-A wolf-whistle so loud that people in Düsseldorf were complaining.
The girl jogger turned and treated me to the foulest language she could muster. "It wasn't me, it was the parrot!" I replied to her receding behind. As if I'd do such a thing. Especially as she looked even more like Rainer Calmund from the front.