Once, perhaps a very long time ago, there were three hunters. The said hunters went on a trip to an exotic land to hunt. When they arrived, they were told by natives not to hunt a certain bird, called the Foobird. The Foobird could kill any living being with ease.

The hunters ignored this, as they didn't trust the natives. So they went out to hunt. About an hour in, they saw a staggeringly beautiful bird, sitting on a tree branch, waiting to be killed.

So one of the hunters shot it. But almost immediately after, another bird of the same species came in and pooped on him. As any sane man would do, he wiped it off, but as soon as he did, he dropped to the ground, dead.

After mourning their friend's mysterious death, the other two hunters went out to kill more birds. Again, the same species of bird was sitting on a tree, ripe for the picking. So one of the hunters shot it, and yet again, he was pooed on.

He kept it in his hair so he wouldn't be incapacitated, but the fecal matter smelled so bad, no man could smell it and not vomit. So he wiped it off, only to die.

So the last hunter went out the next day to hunt some more birds, and saw the species of bird that killed his fellow huntsmen. He was very determined not to be pooed on, so he shot the bird, and prepared for another shot.

But out of nowhere came bird poo. And it landed on the huner's head.

He resisted to wipe it off, and even wore it on the way home. But he smelled so bad, the hunter was placed on the other side of the airplane.

When he got home, the hunter soon lost his job, the respect of his friends, and even the love of his family. So, in a dark back alley, he wiped it off.


Moral:

When the 'Foo sh*ts, wear it.