On my way to work, this morning, I noticed a “committee” of buzzards (yes – a group of buzzards is a “committee”) sitting on street lights, brooding above a dead road-kill possum they obviously wanted for breakfast, but couldn’t reach because of the morning traffic.
I hate buzzards. Actually, that’s an understatement. I loathe buzzards. They repulse me.
Buzzards – also known as vultures (We call ’em buzzards in the South!) – live on death. They can be frequently spotted along country roads and highways, dining on recent road kill.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve ridden a motorcycle in the country, and encountered a “committee” of buzzards feasting on a carcass in the middle of the road. No matter how loud my bike is, or how many times I honk my horn, buzzards always wait until the last minute to get out of my way – not willing to risk stepping away from their meal and losing it to another buzzard. And, every single time, one of the buzzards seems to fly straight at me, swerving away at the last possibly moment.
I’m disgusted by buzzards.
There’s one more terrible thing about buzzards. A buzzard’s primary self-defense is to projectile vomit when it feels threaten. Since the only thing a buzzard eats is dead, rotting road kill, then the only thing they can vomit is regurgitated, partially-digested death.
Disgusting. Really. So gross!
As much as I hate – I mean loathe – buzzards, if I am completely honest, I’m a bit of a buzzard, myself. I feast on death every day. I bet you do too.
Everyday, life presents an endless, all-you-can eat buffet of rotting, stinking death and despair.
And, I’ll confess, sometimes, if Imm not very careful, it spews out on others.
What a disgusting image! And, unfortunately, accurate.
Maybe I should be more careful about what I eat.