Some time ago I gave a brief account of a scientist friend of mine who had tried some experiments with government ministerial DNA, with the result that he had decided to ditch the stored DNA for the wellbeing of the human race in general, and New Zealanders in particular. As he pointed out at the time, we are still in peril, as he is unable to do anything about the actual donors of the DNA.
As mentioned previously, he was rather an eccentric and absent-minded chap of the old school: the type who on arriving at the breakfast table, kisses his boiled egg and cracks his wife on the head with a spoon.
As I was meandering my way on my daily exercise walk (her Saintliness of the Flatulent Unicorn having given her grudging permission to temporarily allow such activity in an attempt to avoid open insurrection), I spotted the professor wandering on a course that would see him pass just off my starboard bow. He was looking very pale and worried and as he drew near I could hear him muttering to himself, “I shouldn’t have done it. What a fool I am, I should have destroyed it”, over and over.
I hailed him, which I had to do a few times before he became aware of my presence. When he recognised me, he again repeated his mantra, and I could see a look of sheer terror in his eyes.
“You’re not looking too happy, old chap”, I commented. “What’s happened to give you this hunted, haunted look?”
“The DNA”, he whispered hoarsely. “I didn’t destroy it all; Owha Tan As Siam.”
I knew that this wasn’t the first line of the Siamese National Anthem as a school teacher of mine had once misinformed the entire class about, but a general admission of total ass-ship. I felt that a cup of coffee and a muffin could well restore some semblance of normality so I pulled him into a nearby café and provided us both with the above-mentioned restoratives. Eventually, I managed to get some sense out of him.
It seemed that when destroying the faulty ministerial DNA, he had succumbed to temptation and rather than destroying Justinda Ardeau’s DNA as he had planned, he had decided to do one final experiment using it. He knew he shouldn’t, but a misplaced feeling that it couldn’t possibly turn out as badly as he suspected tipped the balance, and he began the experiment.
Having a large green and red parrot to hand (as indeed who hasn’t), he decided to breed a parrotling containing Ardeau’s DNA. When it hatched, it looked quite unprepossessing, which is fairly normal for a hatchling parrot, but he did notice that it seemed to have large teeth, which even he knew was not quite normal in the avian world.
It seemed more or less normal, apart from the teeth, for a while, but when it became larger, it was found to have a talent for talking, far above and beyond the ability of most parrots. The professor soon learned not to trust the bird and to keep his fingers well out of the way when feeding it, as it would inflict a nasty bite.
Apparently, the first words it spoke were, “Avast comrades”, and very soon after, “Young communists, young communists, I’m President”, followed by a lot of wing flapping, squawking and head-bobbing.
Without any coaching, it could soon make long meaningless speeches, in which it berated all and sundry for jepradising its covid strategy. “No apology, no apology”, it has apparently been saying a lot lately, and “Sustained propaganda, sustained propaganda” is another recent addition. “Great reset, great reset” is also a favourite phrase of this pestilent parrot.
“When I let it out of its cage, it flies around the room voiding its bowels copiously over everyone, while squawking raucously with what seems to be laughter”, said the prof despairingly. “I never knew a creature that seems to be so full of…” he paused and looked around the room furtively, “sh*t”, he added somewhat embarrassedly, as the prof is rarely heard to say anything stronger than “dash my buttons” or “knock me down with a belaying pin”.
He went on to say that he’s been leaving the cage outside with the door open all day of late, in the hope that the bird would escape, but it just sits on top of the cage calling abuse at every living creature it sees.
“It’s made life unbearable for me and my wife,” he said despairingly. “It shouts ‘be kind, be kind’ as it takes a huge chunk out of your finger, and ‘where’s Karen, where’s Karen?’ as it abuses us for not wearing masks in the house.” He sighed loudly and ran his fingers through the last few hairs on his egg-shaped head.
“This foul fowl needs dealing to”, I said firmly. “Have you thought of wringing its neck?”
“Constantly”, said the prof bitterly. “And I think it knows I’d like to, because it stretches its neck out invitingly and then shouts ‘Help me Karen, they’re trying to kill me’ as it flies back to its cage.”
“Does anyone you know have an aggressive cat that you could borrow that might perhaps deal with it?” I suggested.
“I have a friend who lent me a tiger,” said the prof. “It accused the tiger of jepradising everyone’s health by not wearing a mask, and the tiger fled, terrified.”
I sympathised, and then having one of my brainwaves, I suggested that he send the bird, cage and all, anonymously by courier to the Prime Minister.
“By Jove, old chap, I think you’ve got the solution!” shouted the prof, jumping to his feet, and running down the street.
I wandered home feeling rather pleased that my friend would soon be rid of this pernicious parrot, and that I had been instrumental in solving his problem. My thoughts then turned again to how to rid ourselves of the human parrot that plagues all of our lives.
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