My husband plays hockey. And with that comes sweaty, smelly, hockey equipment. I knew it was part of the deal when I married him. But when you live in an 800sq. ft. apartment in the city, shit gets real—especially when he airs out his jock in the hallway during a July heat wave. Where’s the ban on straight marriage?

To avoid divorce, he agreed to keep his equipment on the fire escape. Thank god!

Then this happened:

What you can’t see in the photo is the flock of angry, dizzy pigeons hopped up on the smell of my husband’s sweaty balls waiting to have breakfast in their new leg-pad home.

Shit.

I knew what I had to do. For the sake of my marriage, I had to go to bat for my husband’s jock. I kicked. They made a weird angry bird noise I didn’t know pigeons made. I screamed. They made another weird bird noise. Then victory! I dumped out the nest and yanked the equipment back inside.

Great.

The sweaty ball smell was back. And now it was accompanied by West Nile and a whole lotta bird shit. So who really won? (Oh, and before PETA goes ape shit on my ass, you should know that I dumped all of his dirty socks and underwear out there so they could rebuild. Who says I don’t appreciate nature?)