The Fred Phelps email

I have made friends with a bird couple, I believe their name is the Rosenbaums, the only time they said it, I was eating a sandwich and I was not paying attention, it's not that important.

The Rosenbaums live inside my houses wall. A broken brick has opened wide enough to allow the Rosenbaums access to the inner part of the wall, where they have created something of a breeding condo. I talk with the Rosenbaums. A couple of weeks ago I was working on a fence and Mrs. Rosenbaum stopped by to chat. She mentioned that she had a few babies, not surprising, the way she and the mister go at it. I did not, of course, say that.

The Rosenbaums are a very sweet couple and I really do not mind at all that they have taken up residence in the wall of my residence. Not at all, really. Although, to be honest, while I was working on that fence, I did notice that the hole in the brick that serves as the Rosenbaums front door would need to be sealed if I did not want to pay an incredibly high surcharge in my winter heating bill. I said nothing to Mrs. Rosenbaum. She flew away after a few minutes of silly chit chat. She is a dodgers fan, Iam not.

One day recently I stopped at the Rosenbaums front door, stood on my tip toes and glanced into the hole in the brick. I could not see anything inside, and then Mr. Rosenbaum shuffled out, asked me what the fuck I wanted, and flew away. Rude I thought, what does she see in him anyway?

I made a point to really look at the size of the Rosenbaums front door. I have this spray sealant that was developed for sealing and insulating these very types of holes in bricks. I would use that, once the Rosenbaums children had grown and left the nest, so to speak, since it really could not be considered a nest in any real term, I mean, it's a hole in my houses wall for gods sake.

Recently Mr. Rosenbaum confronted me and was very aggressive. "Hey Fatty," He started. Let me pause here for a second. While I am a bit overweight by most government standards, it is striking that over the past few months friends, co-workers, my dentist, a talking billboard, my lesbian dead dog and now an angry Jewish bird all have referred to me as fat. I'm just saying, I'm doing everything I can, but dammit, I do love me them donuts. "Hey Fatty, what you scoping out my place for? You got eyes on my woman?"

"Yeah, she's good enough to eat."

"That's fucked up son, that's fucked up."

"I was kidding Mr. Rosenbaum. No, I figure when you guys leave for the winter, I am going to want to seal up the front door."

"What's that again?"

"You know, your kids will have left the nest, you and Mrs. Rosenbaum fly off to Florida and I can seal off the place."

"Now wait one second there Mr. Rotundo. Just because we're Jewish you automatically think we go to Florida in the Winter."

"I didn't mean that."

"But you said that."

"Right."

"Right. Well, no. Fuck you to that stupid shit idea. Got it. That's our home and you will not be doing anything to it. Am I clear?"

"Yes."

"Good, and really, work out or something, what do you weigh now, like 250?"

I walked in the house.

Logically, I really have nothing to worry about. I mean, the Jewish angry birds will fly off to Florida, or wherever it is they go during the winter, and I can seal up the hole in my wall long before the real cold sets in. Plus, they are birds, what can they do? As far as I know, they don't even read this blog.

There was a knock on the window. A tapping really. An angry tapping. It was Mr. Rosenbaum. He was screaming at me. "Johnny is dead."

I opened the door, on the ground laid a little tiny featherless bird, very small, a baby bird, laying dead, there, on the ground. Mrs. Rosenbaum was standing beside it, she looked at me, kind of shrugged her wings and flew up and into the hole in my wall. A mother has to care for what remains in her nest I guess. Then Mr. Rosenbaum asked me to take care of the body and he too flew into their house, which is also my house, but I did not say that.

For whatever reason I knew I could dispose of their baby, Johnny. Weird that a Jewish couple would name their baby Johnny. Before I did anything I walked out to where the body laid and I took out my phone and I took a picture of the lifeless bird. It almost looked like a fetus, which made me think of that insane preacher in Kansas who hates everyone and protests at funerals. I went into my house, found out his name is Fred Phelps, found an email address and sent him the picture of the barely formed bird with the subject line reading, "something must be done."

I buried Johnny in my backyard garden of hope, near the growing watermelon plants.

Later that night, or better, early the next morning, around 2 AM, I got an email. Fred Phelps replied, "Amen brother."

Amen indeed.