You forgot the "do the job right" part, JG.

Seriously, I hate this stupid bird. First of all, it's a boy and my daughter named him Shirley (well, she was only 6 when we got him), so Mr. Babe feels compelled to call him Big Man to make him feel better about his name. He allows him to fly around, saying things like, "Way to go, Big Man!!" This is supposed to reassure him about his masculinity (the bird's, not my husband's). Secondly, he's a pig (again, the bird, not my husband, although they both have their moments). There are feathers and seeds all over the place constantly. Third, he's supposed to live until he's about 25 and he's only 7.

We actually had carbon monoxide poisoning two years ago. If that didn't kill him, I don't know what would. At this rate, the damn thing will fly over my grave and poop on it.

I think that a cocktail actually sounds good about now.