An American hunter finally got to go on his African hunting trip. He had a fantastic time and filled his tags with just about every type of game on the continent. He was talking to his guide when he asked, "What else is there that I haven't harvested, yet?" The guide thought for a moment and said, "Well, there is the Foo Bird."But I won't guide you on that hunt. It's too dangerous." The American hunter thought about that and decided he could take anything on earth with the arsenal he had along. He got directions and set out with his native bearers. As he left, the guide cautioned him, "When you shoot a Foo Bird, it will squak and call every other Foo Bird from miles around. They will all flock over you and defecate on you. If any of that stuff gets on you, don't try to wash it off and don't perspire. Water turns it to poison and you will die screaming in agony." The American hunter finally gets into Foo Bird country and sights a fine, fat specimen. Not wanting to give the bird a chance to squak, he uses his trusty 4 bore to blow the silly little bird to smithereens. The bird squaks. All the other birds come around and bomb him. He is covered, head to toe in the most vile smelling, sticky smear one can imagine. He upchucks everything he has eaten for the past two weeks and is as sick as he has ever been in his life. He decides that the poison can't be any worse than what he already has on him, so he tries to wash off a little at a time. The first drop of water touches the mess, turns it to poison and the hunter dies, screaming in agony. The moral to that story? "If the Foo shits, wear it."