"I was an artsy bird; I pursued a career among my fellow creative types, writers mostly. I even had dreams of my own--you didn't happen to see a screenplay in the dumpster, did you?
"Yeah, I know. Me and every bird, duck and gull in California. Anyway, I knew I was in trouble when AOL came around. Things went downhill from there. Every new start-up I dropped another feather. Meanwhile my tech-canary cousin Codechirp is getting fat as a goose.
"I interviewed for the Twitter job. I figured I was a shoo-in with my name being Tweety and all. But those bums ripped me off. They went with a lowlife sparrow name of Larry instead because he worked cheep.
"But the joke's on him. They replaced him with an app.
"I picked the wrong field, writer boy, and so did you. If it's any consolation to you, the rest of humanity is in the same, sinking boat. Pretty soon one machine will make everything you guys need and everybody will be out of work. Except maybe the pizza delivery guys. My nephew Peep-a-roni tells me that's a growth industry.
"Speaking of which, I'm famished. Got any birdseed around this dump? I mean, you should. Isn't that what they pay writers nowadays?"
I wish this story had a happy ending, and it might, for us humans, if we learn the lessons Mr. Canary was trying to tell us. But not, alas, for the bird. My cat, who cares nothing at all about the new economy, ate him.
Let that feline slacker have the final word about our avian friend.
"Tweety was a deliciously diverting bird, with savory undertones of bankruptcy and asset bubbles and a lingering grace note of anthracite."
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