The Fall of the British Empire In Christmas Cards Part II: BIRDS MAN

Okay so:

[image error]

I am aware that killing wrens is an old English tradition at Christmas, possibly for Sound Mythological Reasons but also because if you have your whole family in one place during the winter, SOMETHING is gonna die, and it’s probably better to lose a small bird than Cousin, IDK, Probably Wulfgar. (PROBABLY. I don’t want to dictate, especially if Cousin Wulfgar’s gotten really into blockchain.) But this looks like a robin, so why are we joyful about its corpse?

The article says that images like this were meant to remind Victorians that poor children were dying in the snow. I say that, first of all, maybe fix your society so that doesn’t happen rather than farming it out to the greeting card industry, and second, there is damned little Victorian media that doesn’t involve poor children dying in snow, except for the stuff that involves frivolous young women dying of consumption. Seriously, between Hans Christian Andersen and Louisa May Alcott, you can’t throw a brick in Victorian lit without hitting some winsomely perishing urchin or other.

Meanwhile, whenever a modern scold talks about the degeneracy of our times and the horrible things young people like, I’m like dude, people generations back had corpse photos and jewelry made out of dead people’s hair and COFFIN PLATE COLLECTIONS, so.

[image error]

Um. Well. Yes.

You say “jollity,” I say “torch-bearing bird mob.” Potato…potahto?

Where are they coming from? Nobody knows. Where are they going? I’m hoping not to my place. What do they want? Probably VENGEANCE. And suet.

Lead bird seems to think this is all in a good cause and bound to work out for the best; the two behind are doubtful, but go along anyway, maybe in fear of the two behind *them*. The one on the left, in particular, has the look of a songbird who will tolerate no dissent.

[image error]

Animal concerts? Sure. Drummer Bunny looks more like he’s playing an execution and *really* enjoying his job, but maybe that’s a drummer thing. (There’s a Little Drummer Boy/Spinal Tap crossover that nobody wants lurking around.) Okay.

But WHAT THE HELL IS THAT DANCING THING?

It’s like Dr. Seuss had a bad trip. Or like a bird melted, and then got pins stuck in it. I don’t know. I know that it’s on a box, and it clearly welcomes death. And that’s really all I need to know.

[image error]

Appropriate to the evening: a different article categorizes the below under “dead birds,” and…honey, no. Your innocence does you credit, but observe both the posture and the surroundings, most notably the punchbowl.

These birds are not dead. (Yet: if the expression of Cross-Eyed Bearcat there is less scandalized and more hungry, that situation might change.) No, no. I have been these birds–there was a week in college where I believe I was all these birds–and life, of a sort, went on the next morning.

I kind of wished otherwise, especially after the evening when my then-friend Jerry invented the “beef shot,” but death was not forthcoming.

[image error]

You know what? *Yes*, Victorians. These are owls on tricycle velocipedes delivering mail, and they are good and right. You’ve got living birds, doing a greeting-related thing, and that’s already clearing the (admittedly pretty low) bar set by previous cards, plus the one-escort-owl-to-post-carrying-owl buddy system is heartwarming and deserves its own film about how they learn to overcome their differences.

I’m not going to ask why, or whether these are small velocipedes or EXTREMELY LARGE owls, or whether Owl Post is authorized by the Crown in any way. In these troubled times, we all need postowls on velocipedes.

And white zinfandel.