Here in the Sonoran desert, amongst the majesty of the towering saguaros and the ruthlessness of the scorching spring, summer, fall and winter heat, lives a creature well-adapted to the cruel ministrations of the stark landscape. Fleet of wing, strong of will and as obnoxious as the day is long, this tiny desert denizen mercilessly pounds its way into the hearts of those unfortunate enough to bear witness to its percussive pleas for attention. Its taxonomical classification is peckerheadus annoyus (well, it should be), but it’s more commonly known as the Goddamned Woodpecker.
A product of the frequent mating habits of ancient Etruscan Chaos Demons and some lost species of pterodactyl, the Goddamned Woodpecker is belched from the mouth of Hell in broods that vary in size between one and…well, one is all that matters. Fully formed upon birth, the Goddamned Woodpecker can be easily recognized by the zebra-like pattern of its wings, the blazing evil that sets its beady eyes alight and the emptiness of its tiny, blackened heart.
Immediately upon its fiery entrance into this dimension, the Goddamned Woodpecker surveys its new environs, locates the domicile in which I currently reside, and then invites itself into my life without an actual invitation. Fearless and insolent, the arrogant hellspawn selects one of the many, mighty saguaros in the near vicinity as the site for the lair from which it will carry out its nefarious agenda. Ignoring the threatening spines of the giant cactus, the Goddamned Woodpecker carves out its criminal stronghold by quickly and efficiently boring its way into the very heart of the desert sentinel (much how my hungover sister probably looks using a hammer and a drywall screw to violate the cork on a cheap bottle of merlot). It’s no minor coincidence that the resulting cavity is sometimes referred to as a “boot,” as the Goddamned Woodpecker’s entire mission in life is to take a metaphorical boot and stick it right up the ass of anything that gets in its way.
After completing construction of its new abode, the Goddamned Woodpecker sits and stares vacantly into the night (you might say it’s “rebooting”) as it absorbs the latent energy left behind by its ancestors (probably having a psychic chat with Satan in the process). When the tiniest strand of the approaching dawn’s light penetrates the darkness, the avian fiend shatters the silence by announcing its presence via a song woven from the echoes of the cries of the damned as their souls roasted in the cleansing fires of eternal suffering. Once it performs its sphincter-clinching aria, the Goddamned Woodpecker flutters over to my house, perches unnaturally upon the stucco siding and begins to pound its pointy face violently on the wall without concern for the occupants on the other side and their state of blissful slumber.
As the first stanza of the Goddamned Woodpecker’s irregular drum solo reverberates through the poorly constructed structure, the residents of the feline variety – which were still as stone just prior to the interruption – completely lose their shit and launch their furry bodies maniacally across the bed with gleeful abandon. Woe be to any obstacles in their path, be they flesh or otherwise, as these agile creatures turn paws to claws in their frantic, yet futile, efforts to make sport of the unseen percussionist. Inevitably, their abrupt departure is almost immediately followed by the crashing sounds of vertical blinds being made into a chaotic origami as the psycho-kitties make repeated attempts to penetrate the barrier separating them from the fowl invader. This serves only to intensify the cacophony by inspiring the eldest female resident of the no-longer-peaceful dwelling (who was, just moments prior, in a state of silent repose beside her most awesome mate) to catapult herself out of bed and spit out a string of expletives that would convince a fucking sailor it was finally time to find religion.
By this point, there is absolutely no chance that the state of affairs in the household will return to its previous state of tranquility. No freakin’ chance at all. In fact, a snowball would have more chance of lasting a full minute in Madonna’s underwear (no, I’m not exaggerating). Chances are the situation will instead take a turn for the worse and spiral out of control to such a degree that I will actually have to get out of bed. Naturally, this will only ensure that the event culminates with me making a blood oath to make those stupid vertical blinds suffer for being in the way when the cats clearly wanted to bounce right off the window glass instead.
Alas, my actions are of little consequence, and any promises to exact vengeance on shady (hee hee…shady…get it?) window coverings mean nothing by this point. There is no turning back, and there is no way to escape what lies ahead. Morning has come. It’s time to face whatever the new day has to offer. The Goddamned Woodpecker has done its work.