By Kevin D. Williamson
Sunday, March 29, 2015
The Goose Poop War has begun.
Canada geese have settled on the National Mall, and
Canada geese, in the proud Canadian tradition of Tom Green and Celine Dion,
spew excrement everywhere they go — up to three pounds per day per goose.
(Celine Dion presented the scientific world with an interesting technical
challenge: How to measure excrement in decibels.) Apparently, Canada is either
still miffed about that unpleasantness in 1812 or — and this seems more likely
— enraged about the acquisition of Tim Horton’s by Burger King.
Ergo, biologically engineered avian crap-bombs from
Canada descend upon Washington.
Go ahead and draw up that treason indictment: I am siding
with the enemy on this one.
If there is to be a plague of goose poop befouling an
American city, it really could not happen to a more fitting municipality than
our hideous national capital, and especially to the gallery of architectural
malpractice and monumental grotesquery that is the National Mall, that eternal
testament to the unfinished work of Major General Robert Ross, who had the good
taste to put Washington to the torch but who tragically failed to salt the
earth on his way out. General Ross later helped to establish what would become
a proud American tradition: getting shot to death in Baltimore. His body was
pickled in rum before being returned to Nova Scotia, an excellent end to a life
well-lived.
If we could station a brace of geese outside Harry Reid’s
place at the Ritz, then the former Senate majority leader could leave
Washington with something to remember it by other than the campaign donations he
sneakily diverted to his granddaughter.
Joseph Conrad’s Nostromo is set in the fictional Republic
of Costaguana; Conrad was fond of multilingual puns (if you want to feel
under-accomplished, consider that Conrad, one of the English language’s
greatest novelists, did not learn the language — his fourth — until he was in
his twenties), and was apparently much amused by the fact that Chile had gone
to war with Peru and Bolivia over valuable deposits of bird poop in the Pacific
War, also known as the Guano War. Costaguana is thought to be mostly based on
Colombia, but the underlying narrative — imperialists and revolutionaries and
caudillos and mercenaries fighting over vast deposits of bird byproduct — is
damned near universal. Guano was used at the time to make gunpowder and
explosives — which is to say, the South American military-industrial complex
was all revved up to do what military-industrial complexes do best: secure more
matériel for the military-industrial complex.
For Conrad, the guano was metaphorical. For us, it is
simply literal. Nostromo was published in 1904, but it remains a tome for the
times.
It is remarkable how efficiently Washington can rouse
itself when the interests of its denizens are directly at stake. Washingtonians
have developed a taste for the high life in the past few decades, and no
self-respecting man about town wants to be up to his Kennedys in goose poop.
The aggression of Branta Canadensis simply will not be allowed to stand. Ergo,
Washington plans to unleash the hounds.
Not hounds, really: border collies. According to Reuters,
Lassie and friends will be deployed to “harass the large and growing population
of Canada geese from tourist draws like the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool,
the Washington Monument grounds, and John F. Kennedy Hockey Fields.” I like to
imagine that John Kennedy, when he was being weaned on virgins’ blood and
unpasteurized dairy products by the coven of megalomaniacs from which he
hailed, dreamed that one day there’d be a hockey field named for him, and that
it would be free of goose poop. I think we owe him that much.
The obvious question here — or at least the first thing I
wondered about — is: Where do the all those border collies come from? We have a
national strategic petroleum reserve and, hilariously enough, a national
strategic helium reserve — in case we ever decide that we want to make all
those Boko Haram throat-cutters talk like Alvin the Chipmunk — so it is not
beyond all conception that we have a national strategic border collie reserve,
too. I am sorry to report that my inquiries to the Department of the Interior
late last week regarding this critical national resource went unanswered. But I
will stay on the story.
In the United States, we have public debts and
unfunded-entitlement liabilities equal to the value of all the stocks trading
on all the world’s stock markets — combined and multiplied by three. We are
beset by the very real possibility of atomic ayatollahs engaging in casual
nuclear war — not only in the Middle East, but possibly also in Europe, in
Asia, and, given the state of our border security, right here. We have a crime
syndicate in charge of the Internal Revenue Service, and a Department of
Homeland Security that can’t stop millions of people from crossing the border
illegally but does an absolutely awesome job of making sure that you do not
bring more than 3.4 ounces of Sensodyne onto an airplane. We have record
numbers of people pushed into dependency on an ever-proliferating variety of welfare
programs. Washington responds to this array of existential threats with the
urgent dynamism and focus of Jabba the Hutt on a glitterstim bender.
But an anatid from up north drops a deuce on the site of
the John F. Kennedy Memorial Field Hockey Tournament — “the oldest field hockey
tournament in the United States,” hurrah! — and Leviathan arises from his
dreamy slumber. Really, given what we know about Washington and how it works,
can you blame the birds?
Canada geese: Doing jobs American voters won’t do.
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