Sans Cerebrum News
Herenthar Sat-E-Lite's Investigative Report
Herenthar Sat-E-Lite’s news columns are a deep dive into the oddly specific corners of the world, where overlooked facts and fringe curiosities are given the spotlight they deserve. With a sharp nose for detail and a penchant for investigative wanderlust, Herenthar unpacks complex subjects—ranging from bureaucratic absurdities to the social behaviors of alley cats—with wit, skepticism, and the occasional furball. Each column is a thoughtful, unhurried exploration that challenges assumptions, tickles the intellect, and leaves readers questioning what they thought they knew.
Pigeons Birds Aren't Real #2 - by Getty AI
Droppings of Power: Are Pigeons Pooping in the Mouths of Billionaires… on Purpose?
By Herenthar Sat-E-Lite, Investigative Reporter, Sans Cerebrum News
It began, as many things do, with a stain. A damp, white smear on the suede loafer of a tech mogul stepping out of his self-driving yacht in Miami. Next, it was a gaming tycoon struck mid-interview in San Francisco, blinking in stunned silence as a plop landed directly on his tongue. Then came the oil heir in Dallas, the crypto baron in Manhattan, and the space capitalist in Tucson—all defiled by the same ignoble aerial assault: pigeon poop, straight in the mouth.
I was intrigued.
Some say coincidence. Others whisper coordination. But I, Herenthar Sat-E-Lite, see a pattern—and where there’s pattern, there’s purpose. I set out, Bonkers reluctantly in tow (she prefers couches to cross-country flights), to discover the truth behind the Feathered Uprising. Are the pigeons sending a message? Are the crows—ever watchful, ever judgey—involved? And more urgently: how does one describe the taste of pigeon, if not metaphorically?
First Stop: Scranton, Pennsylvania
Population: 76,000. Bird count: Unknown. Vibe: Greasy and suspicious.
At the corner of Mulberry and Miffed, I spoke to an elderly man eating a slice of sausage-and-mushroom pizza with all the enthusiasm of a disillusioned philosopher.
“Pigeons?” he said, wiping sauce from his chin. “Yeah, they’ve been acting real smug lately. Saw one walk right into a Wendy’s last week, no fear in its eyes.”
“Do you think crows could be helping them?”
He paused, gazing skyward as a pair of crows cawed ominously on a lamppost.
“Crows don’t help nobody unless there’s somethin’ in it for them. But they do remember faces.”
He then offered me a bite of his slice. Greasy, chewy, no apparent feathers. 7/10.
Before leaving, I asked him who his least-favorite billionaire was.
“Elon,” he spat. “Not because of the cars. Just seems like the kind of guy pigeons would target outta spite.”
Second Stop: Truth or Consequences, New Mexico
A town named after a game show. Fitting.
There, I met Inez, who sells turquoise necklaces and grilled jackrabbit empanadas out of a trailer painted like a phoenix.
“Pooping pigeons?” she laughed. “Sounds like divine justice.”
She handed me an empanada. “You know who doesn’t get pooped on? That guy who owns the local wind farm. He gives the birds peanuts. They know who’s cool.”
When I asked her how she thought pigeon might taste, she squinted.
“Depends if it's urban or rural. City pigeons probably taste like hot dog water and vape smoke. Country ones? Maybe a dusty chicken.”
She considered my crow theory, then nodded toward a scraggly pine tree. “Crows are the puppetmasters. You didn’t hear that from me.”
Her least-favorite billionaire? “Zuck. He looks like someone who’s never made eye contact with a real bird.”
Third Stop: Astoria, Oregon
Rain. Fish smell. Seagulls with attitude.
At a local dockside diner called The Salty Feather, I sat with two fishermen, brothers named Ned and Ted, who claimed to have seen a pigeon take a “deliberate dump” on a yacht belonging to a software magnate.
“It wasn’t random,” Ned said, picking at a fried halibut sandwich. “It hovered. Hovered.”
“Like it was targeting,” Ted added. “Laser-precision feces.”
They believe pigeons are in contact with crows through “coo-municative murmurs,” a theory I chose not to question.
I asked them what they thought pigeon would taste like.
“Like regret and breadcrumbs,” said Ned.
“Like victory, if you’re the one doing the pooping,” said Ted.
Their least-favorite billionaire? “The one who bought half the forest to build a bunker. Won’t say his name. Birds’ll hear.”
Back in New York City
I returned to Central Park, where the air smelled of pretzels and unresolved tension. I lay on a bench, pretending to nap, hoping to overhear some avian conspiracy. Bonkers stood guard nearby, tail twitching.
That’s when I saw it: a pigeon and a crow on the same branch, eerily still, observing a Wall Street suit sipping overpriced espresso.
They did nothing. Just watched. But I felt it.
Purpose.
Conclusion:
Are pigeons targeting billionaires? Almost certainly. Is it coordinated? Signs point to yes. Are the crows involved? They deny everything—but so do all masterminds.
As for why? Perhaps poetic justice. Perhaps political protest. Or maybe, just maybe, the birds are finally rising to reclaim the skies—not through violence, but through humiliation.
What does pigeon taste like? I still don’t know. But I’ll keep looking. For truth. For feathers. For flavor.
Until next time, stay curious. Stay grounded. And never, ever look up with your mouth open.
—Herenthar 🐾