Today is a great day to be a bird. As much as I enjoy and would like to travel, airfare, bus fare, life not being fair, and the trivial obstacles like responsibility and guilt have stopped my dreams from coming into fruition. This would not be so if I were a bird though! If a bird needs a round trip to Las Vegas, he can just up and leave. Literally, his body goes in the direction up, and he is on his way, without the faintest bother of boarding passes, arriving an hour before departure, or lurking the Ortbitz website with the dedication of Captain Ahab himself waiting for that sweet deal (word on the street is, Mondays!) Birds are terribly lucky having never known the financial perils that only we more evolved creatures have the luxury to suffer.
So Mr. Bird has embarked on his trip to Las Vegas. Let's call him Bernard. Bernard will fly for a few hours until he eventually needs to pull over to refuel. No gas station or diner for twenty miles? Please, he's a goddamn bird. The very earth is a traveling buffet: a Golden Corral so vast that God herself hasn't sampled every variation of cheese sauce yet. I believe that douchenozzle Ernest Hemingway so eloquently stated that "Paris is a moveable feast." Well eat my dust bins, Ernie, because I'm a goddamn bird; the world is my feast, and I'm the only thing moving. Whether Bernard is the healthy organic type and eats nuts, berries, and creatures from the Earth itself, or he follows his human foodies for deep-fried, over-processed sustenance, there is not shortage of food. What modern humans enjoy doing more than eating food, is throwing it away. For instance, I am such a modern, hip and happening lady of civilized society that I once dumped two containers of curly fries out by a pond and watched voyeuristically as the ducks consumed every last deep fried morsel. Trust me, food is not a problem for birds.
After dinner, Bernie will feel a bit sleepy, as buffets tend to have that effect. As any wary traveler, he'd rather not seek refuge in a hotel (motel?) with any form of the words "Value" or "Super" in the name, lest he become the latest on a long list of local birds gone missing. For the unbeatable price of $0.00, he can stay in the upper level suite of the nearest tree. Perhaps no trees are available in the concrete jungle of a cityscape. The nooks and crannies of buildings new and old alike are perfect abodes for Bernard. Having visited quite a few cities in my day, I can attest to the amount of shit I've seen; literally, buildings and vehicles covered in bird fecal matter. For that I must tip my hat to Bernard and his friends for having the audacity to defile our most sacred monuments and getting away with it. On that matter, rest stops are never a problem for a bird on a long trip. I'm sure the avian version of Mr. Hemingway would say, "The world, is a moveable toilet... and a feast." Oh that Er. Nest Heningway and his irony. Fucking hipster.
Suffice to say that being a bird does have its perks when it comes to travel plans. Cost is virtually nothing, and... well, I can't think of any other advantage to flying to Vegas as a bird. That is pretty much the only reason I am envying those flying rodents out there. While Bernard has probably contracted a slew of disease and has a laundry list of mortal enemies ranging from hawks to Windex, he still has the luxury of not spending hours on end behind a counter. Also, if Bernard makes it to Vegas in one piece, the money saved on travel fare will cover the costs of all the staple activities of Vegas. He can blow as much as he wants on gambling, strippers, and well, blow. It's the perfect plan! Why has no one else thought to become a bird and go to Vegas before??? Oh, Bernard is still a goddamn bird, that's why. What the fuck is he doing in a casino?
In suit of many great literary geniuses before me, what I have written is an allegory to my own life right now. There is no Bernard. My sisterJenna is Bernard but without the diseases. She also doesn't shit on public edifices, at least not that I know of. Bernard is also a little bit of me, seeing as to how I am the one living behind a counter fantasizing about tree room service. And I too shit on public monuments, especially those memorial ones. Jenna and her troop of bridesmaids are on a quest to the Holy Land to seek the Holy Grail. And by "Holy Land," I mean Las Vegas. And by "Holy Grail," I mean Thunder from Down Under. We the Knights of Dancing on Tables want to cover her costs of reaching the Holy Land and delivering her to Salvation and Australian men in g-strings. We shall succeed. History may not remember us, but for that weekend in January, neither will we.