I Prefer My Birds Fried in a Bucket, Extra Crispy Style.

Dear Chirpy, Chipper, 5:00 am Birds,
I'm sorry, you must have made a mistake.  You must assume that some morning, with all your tweety tweets and chirpy chirps that suddenly the windows of my bedroom will fly open and you'll see this:

And you'll flitter flutter on in and make me a dress and I'll sew you some bonnets and give you fresh seeds to munch on while I sing you a song.

However, as I've already mentioned, clearly you have been misinformed.  If you continue to be all sing-songy that friggin early, you'll see this come out of the window instead:

I'll still sing you a song, as I pluck your feathers for a new down pillow.

Now please just shut the hell up, assholes.

Sincerely, 

Me

PS.  No birds were harmed while writing this post, so relax PETA.

PPS. I actually prefer rotisserie chicken but was unsure how to spell it, so I went with crispy fried chicken in the title.

PPPS.  Now I kinda want fried chicken.

PPPPS. I was once attacked by a large parrot in a pet store.  He went for my eyeballs and my jugular. I'm sure you can understand my deep-rooted feelings of animosity towards our fine feathered friends.  You just can't trust them.