Mine can hover in the air, like a helicopter, and then crap on your head.
They can crack walnuts with their beaks, and break fingers, and remote controls, and your cell phone, and anything of value you put within reach.
Bird poop doesn’t stink too much, and they won’t pee on you, but they do shit on the floor right in the exact place where you walk.
If you are in the kitchen, they will call to you, and call to you, and call to you.
They are destructive, like a three-year old with a knife, and can destroy a $30 bird toy in fifteen minutes.
You can see they are like little dinosaurs. With feathers, and act like a T-Rex, only worse.
You should feed them fruits and vegetables, even though they don’t eat them and will instead spatter them on the walls.
They warn you when a bad man comes in the house. Sometimes they warn you even when a nice man comes in the house.
They crap in the morning. Lots.
Your wife will likely leave you if you travel a lot and she has to care for your birds when you are away.
They have a sense of humor, and love to fuck with you by whistling during your favorite TV show.
If you have a lot of them, you must order big bags of bulk bird food on the Internet. And crushed walnut. And bird toys. And dried fruit.
They drop their toys on the floor and watch as you go pick them up. Then they do it again, and again, and again.
If you put one on the floor, he will walk around like he owns the place, and then he will bite your toes.
If you own birds, you should have an understanding daughter-in-law to take care of them when you die.
Having birds means you’re part of a flock, which is sort of like marrying into a big loud drunk family from Bemidji and having the whole clan over for a party every weekend.
They can fly and I can’t, and I dream about it nearly every night. It drives me crazy.