Beach coitus interrupted by a Frisbee to the dome is harsh for any species, but the snowy plovers, whose breeding problems have closed Sands Beach, will get no sympathy from me.
We all deal with extremely cramped and intolerable living conditions and still find ways to unlock the genital chakras. While no committee has offered us a free-coital zone with our exorbitant rent, Sands gets shut down for some frigid and callow birds with performance anxiety. This is nonsense.
Admittedly, Sands is a harsh locale to get your plover on during the day, but the birds get every single night to themselves. What’s worse, the study the California Coastal Commission used to close the beach was done by some mutant who counted every plover jitter as an environmental holocaust.
I think the CCC enjoyed stiffing our locals. We have it better than everyone else, so long as you ignore the moans coming through the paper-thin walls of every dorm and apartment. I’ve been so disturbed by weird snarls and the sick sight of asscrack that I’d kill 50 bald eagles and panda bears for a personal beach on which to mate in peace.
Perhaps there is some way to help the plovers and keep our beach. Think proactive, before the extermination. Portishead or some other low-key music can mask sex noises when a place is too populated for a proper mattress-romp. Some strategically placed boomboxes and vodka shots might loosen up the plovers. Also, some kind of aerosol-deployed Viagra could send the plovers into a sexual frenzy capable of repopulating the whole region.
Alas, these methods would be as costly and wasteful as the CCC’s little rope idea. Considering global warming, nukes, plagues, comets and whatnot, man should never waste money on other decaying creatures. Protecting birds while your own kind starves is a horrible form of species-ism and points to the inner loathing people have for their own genus.
No. No programs this time. The quickest route to freeing our Sands – considering brain sizes and technology – is to kill two plovers with one shotgun shell. Feed the frigid birds to hungry humans. The squirrels and foxes and raccoons have adapted to the dominant species. If the plovers can’t figure it out, they deserve the boomstick. Even if we tried really hard, we probably couldn’t put all of them down for good. Nature is a resilient cockroach, and a coordinated nighttime extermination of the plovers might just be the environmental impetus the squabs need to evolve. As long as we baby them they’ll keep lounging. Call it “Survival of the Meanest.”
Gun down slow-moving pandas. Anti-aircraft old bald eagles. Torpedo curious whales. The mean shall inherit the earth, and one day it’ll just be rats, cockroaches, crows and humans. The species rate was made to drop, and a plover-hugger is just bailing water on the Titanic. Considering that it’s all going down anyway, the choice between mating differently and the extinction list is no choice at all. Prepare to meet your maker, plover.
Daily Friday editor and Nexus columnist David Downs will return next Thursday for the final column of his college career. It should be very anticlimactic.