Crap on my head

Is there a target on it?

No barber has ever mentioned it.

But somehow, I attract unmentionable and uncomfortable things on my head.

I moved to Dallas, Texas in 1987 to work for an advertising agency.

My primary client was in Houston.

In my first year, I made 80 roundtrip flights on Southwest Airlines. Herb Kelleher sent me a Christmas card.

Many memorable flights, including the time we were struck by lightning and a woman I worked with saw it and grabbed my hand so hard she broke my finger.

But the topper was a night flying back to Dallas with my two best friends at the agency. Two creative guys. Full of hijinks they were.

For example, in one of their offices, they had thumbtacked a Krispy Kreme doughnut to the wall. Been there for months.

An innocent intern came in and asked what the doughnut was all about.

The Bad Brothers took one quick look at each other, and then told the intern it was top secret.

They made him promise never to tell. Which of course he did, and as far as can be determined, is still keeping his promise.

They had been assigned to develop a campaign for the International Doughnut Council.

The campaign was going to revolutionize America's thoughts about the lowly doughnut.

So the three of us are traveling back to Dallas from another interminable meeting in Houston and I am across the aisle from them.

Soon into the flight, something liquid starts dripping onto my head.

I push the flight attendant button. The lovely former Miss Armadillo comes up and explains that it is just condensation from the air conditioning.

So, for the full 50 minutes or so, whatever drips on my head.

When we land, a woman behind us opens the bin and pulls out her thawing bag of shrimp bisque.

The Bad Brothers have never forgotten. Neither have I.

A few years later, in full midlife crisis, I bought a sporty convertible.

Driving down a lovely tree lined lane one evening, I was on the phone with a woman who would become my second wife. And soon, second ex-wife. (Men, if you need help in this area, just call me at 1-800-BAD-ROAD)

As I'm feeling so good about life, and in particular ME, I feel something on top of my head.

The grackles who congregate in the thousands in the Dallas trees at certain times of the year, had taken a joint enema after a bad Mexican food outing and relieved themselves.

Directly on top of my head.

So bad, I had to hang up the phone. So bad, it took several towels and an expensive detailing to handle the mess.

Nothing like grackle poop on your six speed titanimum clad transmission lever to ruin the mojo.

I think I'll get a hat.