This is a story about birds. Any bird in this book that resembles any human being, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Places and events described herein are strictly from the imagination of the author.

A bird is an animal with feathers. Birds live in all parts of the world. Some birds make their homes in cold places, like the North Pole and Duluth. Some live in hot places, like South America and Upper Volta.

There are some birds that migrate from one place to another as the weather changes, and they are known as Wimp-birds. These Wimp-birds choose to relocate when the weather gets tough instead of sticking it out like the Hale 'n Hearty birds do. Why the Hale 'n Hearty birds choose to remain in places like Alaska, Siberia, and Minnesota during the tooth-chattering, snot-freezing winters, is a mystery to me. I suspect it's an ego thing.

There are big birds, one of whom is a famous TV celebrity. Small birds, like those amazing little hummers, and those in between birds known as Middle-birds.

There are several kinds of birds that can't fly because their wings aren't large enough. They're known as Ground-birds. In reality, these Ground-birds are just fish who have learned to glean the oxygen they need to survive from the air instead of the water, but please don't tell 'em--it would destroy their little, inflated egos. One such Ground-bird, the Ostrich, is so frustrated about not being able to fly he sticks his head into the sand and pretends to be a bush.

There are some birds that can talk. They're known as Blabbermouth-birds. Most of the talking birds are rather stupid, though. About the only thing most of them ever learn to say is "Polly want a cracker?," and that's bad English. It should be "Does Polly want a cracker?" The rest of these so called 'talking birds' just whistle the Andy Griffith Show theme song, and by the way--out of key. In my opinion, the owners of these Blabbermouth-birds should be called 'Stupid Blabbermouth-bird Owners' for having the loud mouthed little assholes hanging around their houses all day, blabbing and whistling, using bad English and whistling out of key. I think the Blabbermouth-birds should cage up their owners, and teach them to say: "Does Stupid want a cracker?"

Some humans think it's cute to capture birds, put them in cages, and teach them to talk. They're not actually talking, folks. They're just repeating the sounds you're making, hoping to run across something that might get their poor little asses paroled outta there. That seldom happens. The poor little caged up birds usually die of cardiac arrest when the cat jumps on top of the dresser next to their cage. Then, their lifeless little bodies are wrapped up in a pillow case, put into a shoe box, and buried in the back yard. The guilt-ridden humans then make a little wooden marker with the bird's name burned into it with a soldering iron, "Tweety."

Nature has programmed all living creatures to act a certain way by etching into their teeny brains the knowledge they need to carry out her plan, which is primarily survival and procreation. This knowledge is known as 'natural instincts,' and the priority of these instincts is continually being switched around according to the circumstances.

Basically, survival is on top of the priority list, and for birds to survive their little bodies must be fueled with food. This is why, in most cases, when you see a bird, he or she is scratching around, trying to find something to eat, or they've already found it and have it dangling from their beak. Then, on occasions you'll see a bird perched on a power line singing his mating song, which brings us to the second priority. When their little bellies are full, a major switch takes place. The sexual appetite kicks in, and this leads to all sorts of unusual activity. It's a toss-up as to which of these two major forces, eating or screwing, is the strongest, but sometimes they work in concert with each other. Haven't you taken your mate out for a fancy, smancy meal, returned to your nest and...well, you know?

With full bellies, and after being sexually gratified, a slew of minor instincts take over and they switch around at a frantic pace. These instincts are primarily ego driven, like having a bigger, fancier nest, prettier feathers, and a prettier tune to sing. Obtaining these material things keeps a bird fairly busy all day, working his little butt off trying to impress all the other birds. But, the other birds couldn't care less. They're out there doing the same thing. This is called 'the grind.' But, when the sun settles toward the western horizon, these tired and sweaty bird's thoughts will surely turn to a big, fat, grub worm, dinner for two, and a roll in the twigs. Now, that's where they'd better be impressive.

Nature rewards all living creatures when they follow Her plan and She punishes them when they don't. Sometimes we don't understand how these rewards and punishments are doled out by Mother Nature, and sometimes even comment to Her about it. "Aw Mom, what did I do to deserve that?" I know you've heard that before. But I'll bet you've never heard a bird say, after he or she had sex, "Wow, that was great, thanks Mom!"

Like some humans, some birds are prone to overindulge in certain pleasures that Nature has provided. When a bird takes a sip of the 120 proof, fermented, fig-slush from an old rotted out tree stump, and it makes them feel good, why heck, he takes another sip. It only stands to reason if one sip makes you feel good, two sips have to make you feel better, or three, or as many as their little bellies will hold. This is how some birds become alcoholics. By the same theory, when a bird eats the larva of a willow fly, that has been nourished by the leaves of a cannabis plant instead of the willow tree leaves as Nature intended, and is jammed packed with THC, they become dope addicts.

Some birds, like some humans, become so hooked on these mood altering substances, they spend their entire lives just trying to stay drunk and high all the time. This is a real dilemma, and birds that stay too drunk and high to work for a living turn to stealing, and lying, and going on welfare, like some humans do.

On the other hand, there are some birds who can imbibe and still function well enough to earn a living, like musician-birds, actor-birds, literary agent-birds, doctor-birds, pilot-birds, attorney-birds and writer-birds, to name a few. I'm sure you know of many more.

There are some goody-two-shoes birds who want to go out and save these addicted birds from their fate. They want to stop them from killing themselves with alcohol and drugs. Personally, I think they ought to be left alone to do as they please. Besides, the world is way too over populated as it is. Life is just a headlong plunge to toward death, anyway, and these addicted dudes are going to win, and they don't even know they're in the race. These addicted birds don't have to worry about the things the Goody-two-shoes birds seem to be tortured by. You ever seen a drunk, doped up bird worried about the stock market? Never!

This is the story of Willie and Rachel, two Blackburnian Warblers, who meet quite literally by accident, and who suffer the agonies of addiction as they search for those fleeting moments of pleasure that alcohol and drugs keep promising them is just around the corner. It is a story of love, hate, jealousy, greed, envy, rage, deception, black(bird)mail, and even murder. It is the story of birds caught up in man-made and natural disasters, and of their struggles to overcome these traumas. The next time you see a bird perched on a limb or power line, singing his or her mating song, just remember, he or she may be off on the wonderful adventure of procreation, or they could just be looking for a drinking partner.

The theories put forth in this book are not meant to be used as guidelines by those trying to overcome their alcohol or drug addictions. They are only speculation on the part of the author, and quite frankly they never worked for him.