I hate geese. I hate them. I hate very few things – I consider my hatred something to be earned – and they hold top spot on my “things that I hate” list.
It all started when I was four. My parents had taken me to
the park to feed the ducks (the beast's significantly more tolerable cousins)
when the incident occurred. There I was, innocently tossing bits of white bread
to their intended recipients, when a few giant white things with orange knobs
on their faces sauntered over. They were as big as I was. They were hungry. I
was kind. I fed them the rest of the bread. They were not happy when I ran out.
One of them in particular, a complete brute of a goose, decided that he was
not yet satisfied – but that he would be. He spread his wings, screamed at me
in his goose honk, and proceeded to chase me through the park. He snapped at my
heels as I ran, attempting to devour me. His wings beat the air around him. I
could feel the wind they stirred at my back. I screamed and ran as fast as I could
- tiny feet pounding the grass, tiny heart hammering as I raced for my life. I
kept running until I couldn’t anymore and had to stop and catch my breath. At some point the goose had given up the
chase, no doubt to find some other easier prey. I found my parents (to this day
I don’t know why they didn’t rescue me). They told me that the goose had
mistaken my little white sneakers for more white bread. Then they laughed. They
still laugh. But I knew better then and know better still. That thing had blood-lust in its eyes.
The point of this story is to let the world know the truth. Geese are monsters. Don't trust them. In case you're not convinced... Proof
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