I don’t want to get into a whole thing here but I believe you’ve misidentified that flying object. It is a red-tailed hawk. Because it just is. Well I don’t really know what to tell you. I can’t help that you’re wrong. I’m merely trying to point out your mistake so you can learn from it.
I’ll tell you how I know. First of all I don’t like your tone. You’re acting as though you know more about birds than I do and I’m afraid that just isn’t the case. Ok. Because I went to an overnight camp last year at the National Aviary on the North Side. Yes. They do have overnight camps there. They’re not advertised as such but you’re allowed to sleep there if you truly love birds. It is not trespassing. That’s a crime. Since when is it a crime to be enthusiastic about birds?
Well where did you learn how to identify birds? Texas A&M? That’s a college for agricultural and mechanical studies. What do they know about birds? Orni-what? HAHA! Ornithology? What did they teach you with that degree? I’m sure you know about Zeus and Thor, but that’s hardly a reason to consider yourself an expert in my field.
There! See the banking lateral movement and the flashing red lights? That is an easy indication that we’re viewing the beauty of a red-tailed hawk. See it’s four rotors spinning in unison? God has never made a more majestic creature. See it hovering steadily in one place above that construction site? It is most-certainly a red-tailed hawk and not a “drone” like you say. Drone’s are in the insect family you fool! Yes, I see the camera on it. Obviously someone attached a Go-Pro to a red-tailed hawk and then sent you here to argue with me. Probably the president.
“I Love You Stinky Face” is a vividly illustrated bedtime story that shows how the unconditional love of a mother can be tested through the relentless questions of her little boy, who in his mind turns into a variety of creatures.
“But Mama, but Mama, what if I were a super smelly skunk, and I smelled so bad that my name was Stinky Face?”
“Then I would give you a bath and sprinkle you with sweet smelling powder. And if you still smelled bad, I wouldn’t mind, and I would hug you tight and whisper in your ear, ‘I love you, Stinky Face.'”
Owen awoke that morning with the glare of yellow sun stabbing through his Thomas the Tank Engine curtains. Thomas’ face was illuminated like the gilded stained glass of old cathedrals. The faces of Thomas and Percy and Sir Topham Hatt were all brilliant shades backlit by the morning, yet their vacant stares cast a coldness into the room.
He stretched and buried his eyes in the pillow, gently shuffling his feet back together under the covers. He rubbed his eyes and felt something different. Black fur had coated his hands and the rest of his body sometime in the night. He arose with a start. The immediate pulse of adrenaline shocked the sleep from his body and he was aware of many sounds and smells. Owen looked at his hands and feet, all paws now. A jet-black tail streaked with white protruded from his jammy bottoms.
Just then, footsteps sounded in the hallway and he heard his mother’s voice approaching quickly. The handle to his bedroom door turned.
“Good morning, baby,” his mother called. “Can I get you some breakfa-” Before she could finish the sentence, she let out a shriek. “What the hell!” she cried. She slammed the door shut again.
“Carl!” she called for Owne’s father. “There’s a god-damned animal in Owen’s room.” The heavy footsteps of his father came bounding up the stairs. There was a intense conversation in the hallway.
“But it’s just me!” Owen tried to call out. But only squeaks resonated in the room. “It’s your little baby Owen!”
The door opened again, more carefully this time. His father, armed with a hockey stick and a large cardboard box, side-stepped into the room.
“Daddy, help me!” Aiden tried to squeak. He ran up and hugged his father’s leg. “I dreamt I was a skunk and now it came true.” His father swung the hockey stick, striking the creature that was once his son in the snout.
No plea of Aiden’s helped, no plea was even understood; however humbly he might turn his head, his father merely swung his stick more forcefully. When Aiden turned to cower from the next blow, his tail lifted and sprayed the room with a heinous secretion. His father cried out blindly and retreated back to the hallway.
His parent’s conversation outside of the room was muffled again. Aiden could only hear the words “Go get my gun.”
Harrisburg, PA – Reporting that it took over 37 minutes to get through his son’s normal bed time reading routine, parent Tim Rommel has revealed that a children’s book about the movie “The Good Dinosaur” is inexplicably 62 pages in length.
“It just kept going on and on and on,” said Mr. Rommel. “I was on page 17 and they were still doing basic character exposition. They didn’t even introduce that little caveman guy until like halfway through the book.”
Pixar could not be reached for comment.