Why my job sometimes doesn't rock

I suffer from bird phobia.

Birds creep me out — those pointy beaks, beady little eyes and the lethal-looking talons (shudder) ...

Plus, I'm one of those dry-goods-hoarding, bird-flu-fearing freaks who's convinced the little squawkers are out to do us in with a raging epidemic, just so they can take over the planet.

(Alfred H., you were a wise, wise man. You saw their potential for evil.)

So the day before yesterday, a photographer and I headed over to the zoo to check out a new, interactive lorikeet exhibit. First, however, we visited the birds — all 25 of them — in their current teeny-tiny quarters.

Inside. A. Locked. Cage. With 25 birds.

I sidled in behind the photographer — who raises pigeons and happens to think all birds are fascinating — and stood, motionless and terrified, while he took pictures and played with a lorikeet named "Bitey."

Ahem.

At one point, four lorikeets lined up on the branch directly in front of me, cocking their little heads and squawking at me — clearly an attempt to intimidate.

Leave immediately, intruder, or we will peck your eyes out.

So I did, clutching my poop-stained notebook, tugging at my poop-streaked shirt and ID badge and wiping poop from my hair.

Still, moments later, I mustered enough courage to wear this little lorikeet on my shoulder and smile (albeit painfully, with clenched teeth) for the camera.

And of course, the bird managed to look cute and cuddly and totally harmless.

But I know she wanted a piece of my ear.