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If one were to make a list of the ten best reasons to GTFO, tornadoes would fall somewhere between an asteroid impact and a bag of literal shit about to hit your fan. What I'm saying is, it's up there. And these Golden Warblers sure knew it.
"That's a nice fan you got there. Be a shame if I pooped on it."
Back in April, the Tornado Alley got an ass whooping. A whooping that cost $1bn in damages and 35 lives. During that month, 84 tornadoes landed and sprawled across the ground, doing to the earth what a kid with a hair blower could do to an ant hill. Redecorate it. And by redecorate, I mean....
"Honey, just think of it this way. Now there's room for that shoe closet you always wanted!"
Apparently, five birds had read the GTFO list and knew that it was time to bail. They left their nests like they had just been evicted and flew south approximately 400 miles, getting themselves out of the line of fire. One day later, the tornadoes hit their neighborhood. We know this information thanks to a team of scientists that placed trackers on the birds, five of which were used in their measurements.
How did the birds know? They heard the distant rumble of tornadoes that were happening hundreds of miles away. I repeat: hundreds of miles away! To put that into perspective, you weren't even able to hear that used dildo salesman coming up from behind until he was already poking you with one of his products as part of his sales pitch.
The tornadoes were emitting infrasound, which occurs at a pitch way below what the human ear can detect. That range is between 20-20,000 hz. Infrasound occurs below 20 hz. Supposedly, the birds heard this low pitch and flew like hell. I like to imagine that whatever infrasound noise the tornadoes were making sounded a lot like the #1 reason on the GTFO list: dubstep.
How did the birds know? They heard the distant rumble of tornadoes that were happening hundreds of miles away. I repeat: hundreds of miles away! To put that into perspective, you weren't even able to hear that used dildo salesman coming up from behind until he was already poking you with one of his products as part of his sales pitch.
"What's the big deal? I wash them all by hand!"
The tornadoes were emitting infrasound, which occurs at a pitch way below what the human ear can detect. That range is between 20-20,000 hz. Infrasound occurs below 20 hz. Supposedly, the birds heard this low pitch and flew like hell. I like to imagine that whatever infrasound noise the tornadoes were making sounded a lot like the #1 reason on the GTFO list: dubstep.
I once ate an octopus. It was in the form of a sushi roll and had the vague resemblance to a tumor cut out of Lance Armstrong's testicle and wrapped in seaweed. I think the consistency would be roughly the same as well. The only thing I learned about octopi that day was that they do not belong in my mouth. Ever. Where do they do belong, however, is as my superhero betting sidekick that helps me predict the next winning sports team.
"That was my cousin, Larry, you just ate! Fuck your sports teams!"
Meet Larry's cousin, Paul, a psychic octopus that received worldwide recognition when he successfully predicted the outcome of 8 matches during the 2010 World Cup. Housed in an aquarium in Germany, Paul would be presented two boxes with a tasty mussel in each. Each box bore a national flag of the competing teams. Whichever box he picked would be the team he predicted would win. And, testifying that we all live in an episode of the Twilight Zone, the team he chose actually won. Keep in mind that the mussels were in glass boxes, so he could not smell them. Meaning that he did not choose based on which smelled tastier.
Paul had an 8-0 record. His odds of a correct prediction each time were a measly 1 in 256. How da fuq? Is it really just coincidence that he picked the right box eight times in a row?
So, a member of Steere House Nursing and Rehabilitation Center in Rhode Island has an almost perfect record of predicting patients' deaths. He will go to their rooms and remain on vigil, bearing witness to their final hours. He has done this fifty times over the last two years. His accuracy is so spot on, that the staff will alert patients' families that death is imminent. His name is Oscar, and he's a goddamn cat.
They managed to get this shot roughly two seconds before he puked a hairball.
Like the great majority of cute, furry demons, Oscar is antisocial. He paces the halls and avoids people. Well, most people. Rather than chill with us living and breathing folk, Oscar hangs with a much more niche crowd: the soon-to-be-dead type of crowd. But, he doesn't just hang out with them. He remains by their side, only stepping out for two minutes at a time to grab some Kibbles. Because nothing works up an appetite like watching Dear Aunt Jessie croak.
The scent of death really adds to the flavor.
Are we supposed to believe that this cat is psychic? A doctor that works there, Dr. David Dosa, actually wrote an entire book
to prove he is.
to prove he is. 
He does manage to offer a sciency explanation. Oscar may have the ability to smell ketones, a type of biochemical that is released by dying cells. If enough cells are dying, such as in the case of a person about to croak, the scent hits Oscar and he comes around. Dr. Dosa, however, is not able to prove this ability. It is an educated guess at best. Meaning, there is room for me to offer my own educated guess. Oscar does no predicting. Oscar does what all demons do. He eats souls. Specifically, the souls of all those patients. I'm on to you, Oscar. You can't fool me with that cuddly fur coat!
"You off to do another 'prediction?'"
"Yesss. All of them. All their souls. They shall all be mine!"
