Most people catch the showbiz bug when they’re young, and I was no different. Ever since I was eight years old, I knew I only wanted one thing out of life: to form a world-famous two-man comedy team with the sole intention of one day meeting Victor Frankenstein’s creation. And when that dream came true, the day we finally crossed paths with one of history’s greatest monsters, he just wouldn’t shut the fuck up about birds.
The winds of destiny sometimes blow in your direction, and thus a lifetime of two-man comedy had brought us to Frankenstein’s castle. Following a series of comic coincidences and above-average situational comedy, we were to have our fated vis à vis with the creature. And I’ll tell you, it was absolutely terrifying – living the moment your entire existence has led to, only to have Frankenstein, the horrific byproduct of Man’s hubris himself, spend fifteen minutes rattling off a list of his favorite bird species in endless succession.
For three decades, my comedy partner and I traveled the country, sacrificing family and normalcy, writing and refining, honing our craft, motivated only by that naïve hope of someday encountering Frankenstein. And when that time came, when we traversed the dark-lit corridors of the gothic castle, lightning and thunder coloring the mood, the fruition of life reaching its culmination – not to mention, considerable slapstick high jinks – the Post-Modern Prometheus’ dastardly creation could only mutter: “Warbler… GOOD!”
You unfortunately grow accustomed to disappointment during your life as a comic: a set doesn’t work, movie and television deals fall through, relationships fall apart. But nothing could have prepared me for the sight of that tragic abomination pointing to a poster of chickadee species on the wall and sounding out every syllable of each scientific name.
So with the pronounced feeling of dread washing over us, a suffocating blanket of existential emptiness, we took a step back and bumped right into an old, dusty chiffonier. Immediately, several bats, startled by the hard jostle, flew from its drawers. The monster raised its arm as lightning stuck, and we recoiled in fear. But he was pointing at the bats and said: “No bird!”
We ran, and the hideous beast gave chase. We escaped the castle and traveled to Geneva in the summertime. Our souls were to be reborn in the total sublime of nature, as our cottage sat on Lac Leman, the beautiful vistas of the Alps providing a sense of isolation and security. Then one afternoon, as we lay sunbathing, feeling the sun’s restorative properties, the monster arrived. He had found us.
There was nowhere to run, and what was the point, anyway? The dreadful monstrosity would follow us to the ends of Earth. We cowered before the monster, waiting our turn to be wrangled by the Hands of Death. There was only solace in that it would be a lovely day to die: the bright sun warming our skin from the cool lake breeze, the fresh smell brought in from the morning rains, and the birds – oh my god. So. Many. Fucking. Birds!
Whoever knew we were constantly surrounded by so many kinds of goddamn birds? Well, Frankenstein did. And that motherfucker was off to the races:
“Ruddy shelduck.”
“Northern pintail.”
“Gadwall.”
“Blue-winged teal.”
“Common scoter.”
“Velvet scoter.”
“Lesser short-toed lark.”
“Eurasian blue tit.”
Just like Doctor Victor Frankenstein himself, we, too, had flown too close to the fire of our passions – our dreams. And now, we had to live in a perpetual nightmare, forever haunted by the knowledge that Geneva was home to at least seven species of pipits.