Pájaro Mierda, Tercera Parte (Bird Shit, Part Three)

Some random street in downtown Buenos Aires. I don't recall exactly where this was, but it doesn't matter, all the streets look like this.

Yesterday I put on my brand new, light weight, light green sport shirt to go shopping with my daughter in downtown Buenos Aires. The streets here are lined with great big, beautiful trees, many as tall as a ten story building. Bear this in mind as you read the rest of this story.
    Determined daughter wanted to buy an air conditioner for her apartment. We didn't have to go far, maybe a mile or two, just from one part of downtown to another, where all the streets are lined with great big, beautiful trees (just in case you forgot). It took a while to complete the sale, but the eventually the three of us ended up on the sidewalk in front of the store with the two box set that contains the air conditioner. The air conditioner comes in two pieces, one smaller, light weight unit that goes inside the building, and a larger, heavy one that contains the compressor and goes outside.
    Osmany is trying to flag down a cab, but we aren't having much luck. Cantankerous stinky pants blames the taxi drivers for being lazy. Can't say as I blame them. Who wants to get out of their air conditioned car into this 90 and 90 weather and help load this great big, heavy box into the trunk?
    Eventually a kid stops and he and Osmany have a wrestling contest with the big box trying to stuff it into the cab, but it's not going to fit and leave room for the rest of us. So they abandon the effort and we go back for looking for a station-wagon-type taxi cab. I've been standing around for what seems like hours, so I suggest I take the lighter box and just walk back to their apartment. It's only ten blocks, I should be able to do that.
    We have a bit of discussion over this but eventually I start to pick up the medium size box and that is when some foul bird drops a king sized bird turd on my head. It splatters all over me, the air conditioner box, and worst of all, miss stinky pants.
    Christ on a crutch. We wiped up as best we could (a gentleman always carries a clean, or least semi-clean, handkerchief for just these sort of events), and packed stinky pants and the boxes off in the next taxi that came along. Osmany and I took another. Naturally, the taxi O-man and I caught was a station wagon and could have carried all of us.