The jet splashdown in the Hudson yesterday was one of those riveting spectacles, such that I almost felt sorry for George W. Bush since no one seemed to pay attention to his farewell address. (Okay, I didn’t feel too bad.) It was really astonishing, even if it did mess up the West Side Highway commute. It brought Weehawken (where I used to live, a fine little township with a bust of Alexander Hamilton marking his duel with Aaron Burr) some well-deserved national and it was a tabloid-ready story for a tabloid-loving city that may be a cesspool of secularism but NEVER tires of “miracles.” What I don’t understand is this: While I could personally never hurt a living creature (blog commenters accepted), Canada geese of the variety that may have cause this near-tragedy get my goat, especially as I try to navigate the fecal minefields in parks and on lawns. What to do? “South Park” had it right:
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