Geese are dicks

It must be a sign that I’m Pennsylvania raised, because everyone I know has a goose attack story.
Mine starts on a blissfully cool evening when I was approximately fourteen years of age. We lacked the luxury of window screens but I was determined to keep my window open to let in the lovely night air. Seeing as we lived by a creek I assumed the worst that would come in were a few mosquitoes.
Now at this same time my mother and step father would always visit carnivals and bring me back lovely stuffed animals to decorate my room. They were out that night as I went to sleep. I woke up to THE most realistic new stuffed goose I had ever seen! And was thrilled!  Until I reached to snuggle my new cuddle-bucket and it bit me. I shouted “What the shit!” As this killer goose raised itself to attack again hissing ferociously. Being the valiant Knight I am (on the inside) I grabbed the touch lamp (remember those?? All metal and glass! The perfect shield! Kind of!) And armed myself with a fly swatter. I did every sword fighting move I’ve ever seen in the movies whilst shielding myself from the dragon-like speed of the angry beast. I managed to beat the demon out into the kitchen and through the door (“THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE!!”) and only receive minor injuries. Puffed up with pride I spun to see my mother, who had witnessed the ending of the event, who then began berating me for playing with wild animals.
Parents just don’t understand.


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