We rolled out of the nest this morning with an ache in our stomachs, and it wasn’t because of the rancid pile of “beef” we scavenged from the Taco Bell dumpster last night.

It was because of the Cubs.

The calendar has barely scratched June, and this team is already 12 games under .500 and nearly that many games out of first.

We poop on that.

We poop on that long time.

And if you’re a member of the Cubs organization, we poop on you.

That’s right, Jim Hendry. The next time we see you strutting into Wrigley yapping on your Android about some deal to bring another seventh starter to town, it’s bombs away, Mr. I Signed Carlos Silva & Milton Bradley And Still Have A Job. By the time we’re done with you, your head will look like the sidewalk under our favorite 7-Eleven awning.

To the esteemed members of the Cubs lineup, there is no escape. You don’t think we can get past those shiny plastic batting helmets? Think again. We call it angle-dropping. See, the momentum carries our poop at a 45-degree angle when we do a fly-by. And we’re going to keep doing fly-bys until one of you gets a hit with men in scoring position. Only then will the carnage stop.

As for the Ricketts clan. Well, while we can’t angle-drop through skybox glass, we can wait. A seagull’s patience is unmatched, even by inanimate objects. We once out-waited a rock. So if you’re reading this, Tom Ricketts, you have to leave your office at Wrigley and go home sometime. And that’s when we get you, out by the parking lot. Because your betrayal is the worst of all. You were supposed to save this team. We also heard rumors about fluffier hot dog buns – but that wasn’t true either! Maybe the next owner should be a fan of the Cardinals. He might nab us a World Series title by accident.

Oh, and this little ditty also goes out to you, Mike “Albert Ain’t Got Nothin’ On Me Except Two Walk-Offs” Quade. The honeymoon is officially over. The warm white drops on your pretty peach dome officially begin … now. If you want them to stop, all you have to do is teach the team a single fundamental. Could be how to hit the cutoff man. Could be how to move a runner over to third base with one out. You choose, Q. It’s your world – we’re just pooping in it.

Lest you think we’re a bunch of cranky poopy-no-pants, there are some people we don’t plan on befouling with our vile excrement. Carlos Zambrano, for instance. Your honesty is sweeter than the cotton candy we fished out of the garbage last week. Bob Brenly, not only do we dig your mustache and candor, we also like pooping on Len’s Camry way more anyway. Sorry Len. You seem like a nice enough guy, but your car just sits out there like a beige beacon of greatness awaiting our excrement.

Lastly, to the fans, we ask for more stale pizza crusts next homestand.

Thank you.

By Wrigley Field Seagulls

Wrigley Field Seagulls