This woodpecker is completely lacking in discernment. Every chance he gets, he pecks anything available. He’s now flying after your girlfriend and pecking a hole in her summer hat. We tried to catch him in a trap and teach him better behavior, but he keeps escaping away to peck the framed photos of our children. I blame his birdbrain. Look: there he is, up in the sky, between that airplane and that superhero — will one of you news reporters please run and fetch my slingshot? Oh, thank you so much! Now, where did he go? Ah, I see: he’s over there on the rooftop, pecking the fiddler. Dang, now he flew over to that glacier, and he’s pecking a hole in the snow. Ooh, he just fell into the icy water — but he’s too inane to realize that his body should have frozen to death, so he blunders up out of the ocean and stands on the shore for a while, breathing heavily through his open beak. And his feathers are a mess.
Now he begins to peck on the steel frame of a space-pod that landed in Antarctica. I put my slingshot down and call out to him: “Sir, stop! You’ll ruin your mouth! Why not try pecking on something softer!” And I guess he heard me, since he flaps away from the craft and mopes for a moment. But soon he zips back over and—wham!—crashes right through the ship’s windshield. I race to look inside, and I find him perched on a vat of acid, dunking his head in repeatedly to peck the poison. I conclude that it’s no use trying to help him. When I shoo him away, he ends up making a beeline for a popular rapper who happens to be standing nearby; and the woodpecker lodges straight in this rapper’s rear end.
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