Hot Potato with a Bird

NARRATOR (GEORGE):
The Toy Museum has its quiet corners—
where Squishmallows wait to be hugged,
and where a teddy bear smells like home.

Tonight is not one of those corners.

Tonight, the Night Watchman
has wandered into the game aisle—

the place where toys don’t just sit and get held.
They demand players.
They demand rules.
They demand noise.

[Footsteps on carpet, then a slightly hollo   w thunk as he bumps a shelf.]

NARRATOR:
Board games stare at Mr. Smith from every direction—
cardboard boxes promising strategy,
mystery,
family bonding,
or at least a temporary truce.
But halfway down the aisle,
a smaller box catches his eye.
Bright colors.
A cartoon pigeon
with a wild stare.
A plastic bird-shaped shaker
peeking through a clear window.
The title is simple,
and more than a little concerning.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
“Exploding…
Pigeon.”

Of course.

Because apparently
“calm, soothing pigeon”
didn’t test well with focus groups.

Transcript

Welcome to Celebrate Creativity. This series is Conversations with Toys, and this episode is called “Hot Potato with a Bird”

And as usual, let me get the disclaimer out-of-the-way.

This podcast is a dramatization that blends historical research with fiction, satire, and imagined conversations between people, toys, and other objects. It is not a documentary and not professional advice of any kind. No character, toy, product, or brand depicted in this podcast is authorized by, endorsed by, or officially affiliated with any company, manufacturer, museum, or organization; references to specific names are for storytelling only and do not imply sponsorship or approval.

I’m George Bartley… now let’s have some fun.

Aquarium [MUSIC: Fade out.]

NARRATOR (GEORGE):
The Toy Museum has its quiet corners—
where Squishmallows wait to be hugged,
and where a teddy bear smells like home.

Tonight is not one of those corners.

Tonight, the Night Watchman
has wandered into the game aisle—

the place where toys don’t just sit and get held.
They demand players.
They demand rules.
They demand noise.

[Footsteps on carpet, then a slightly hollo   w thunk as he bumps a shelf.]

NARRATOR:
Board games stare at Mr. Smith from every direction—
cardboard boxes promising strategy,
mystery,
family bonding,
or at least a temporary truce.
But halfway down the aisle,
a smaller box catches his eye.
Bright colors.
A cartoon pigeon
with a wild stare.
A plastic bird-shaped shaker
peeking through a clear window.
The title is simple,
and more than a little concerning.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
“Exploding…
Pigeon.”

Of course.

Because apparently
“calm, soothing pigeon”
didn’t test well with focus groups.

NARRATOR:
The picture on the front shows the bird mid-squawk,
cards flying,
kids laughing,
hands outstretched as if trying very hard
not to be the one holding the pigeon
when something terrible happens.

[Soft rattle from inside the box, like plastic knocking around.]

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
…Oh no.

PIGEON (voice quick, excitable, slightly frantic):
Oh yes.
Shake me, baby.

NARRATOR:
The plastic pigeon figure on the box front—
round body, tiny wings,
a face halfway between confused and unhinged—
seems to lean forward.

Its beak doesn’t actually move.
But somehow the Night Watchman
knows exactly where the voice is coming from.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
You must be the star of the show.

PIGEON:
Star.
Victim.
Timer.
Emotional support bird.
I wear many feathers.

I’m the heart of this game.
Or maybe the ticking time bomb.
Depends who’s holding me
when I scream.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Let’s start with the basics
before you start shrieking.

What are you, exactly?
What Exploding Pigeon Is

PIGEON:
I’m a party game.

Teams.
Rounds.
Fast turns.
Lots of yelling.

Somewhere between Pictionary,
charades,
and hot potato—
with a nervous bird in the middle.

NARRATOR:
On the back of the box,
pictures explain what the pigeon is too impatient to:
A group splits into teams.
Someone sets the timer inside the pigeon.
They shake it.
A challenge appears—
a card telling them to act something out,
draw something,
or battle in some tiny, ridiculous way.

They have to do it fast
so they can pass the pigeon
to the other team
before the time runs out
and the bird “explodes.”

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
So you’re not about strategy.
You’re about panic.

PIGEON (delighted):
Exactly.

NARRATOR:
The Watchman imagines it:
A living room full of people.
Teams sitting in a rough circle.
The pigeon in someone’s hands,
rattling softly.

A challenge card is drawn.

“Draw a dinosaur.”
“Mime brushing your teeth with your foot.”
“Do rock-paper-scissors with the person next to you.”

Everyone yells.
Everyone laughs.
Someone is desperately scribbling
on the pigeon itself with a marker.

Then—

PIGEON:
—BOOM.

Not literally, of course.
More like—

[SFX: A sharp, silly squawk or buzzer.]

PIGEON:
Time’s up.
Whoever’s still holding me
when I go off
loses the round.
It’s not about points.
It’s about not being the surprised idiot
caught with a bird-shaped grenade.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
You’re really selling the relaxation angle.

PIGEON:
Oh, no one comes to me to relax.
They come to remember
what it feels like
to be gloriously, hilariously
out of control
with people they trust.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
You know, when I was growing up,
our games were…
slower.

Monopoly that never ended.
Checkers.
Maybe a kitchen timer for Boggle
if things got really wild.
Now you’re telling me
families are passing around
a screaming pigeon for fun.

PIGEON:
Times change.
Attention spans change.
Life is fast.
Screens are bright.
People want their games
to match that energy—
but in a way that brings them together
instead of sending them
to separate corners of the house.
I’m like a ten-minute lightning strike.
You don’t settle in.
You jump in.

NARRATOR:
He thinks of the long, slow board games
of his own childhood—
pieces creeping around a board,
someone bored,
someone sulking over fake rent.
This feels like the opposite:
Energy spiking,
noise erupting,
everybody focused on one thing
for a brief, chaotic burst.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Walk me through a round, bird.
Let’s say I’ve made the terrible mistake
of picking you up.

PIGEON:
First, someone sets my timer.
Tick, tick, tick—
you don’t know exactly how long
you’ve got.
You shake me.
That reveals your challenge.

Could be:
“Draw a cat wearing roller skates.”
“Mime being stuck in quicksand.”
“Battle someone in a lightning round
of rock-paper-scissors.”
You do the thing.
Your team yells guesses.
If they get it—

NARRATOR:
He mimics the motion,
hands passing an invisible bird
across an imaginary circle.

PIGEON:
—you pass me.
Fast.
To the other team.
Now they’re stuck with me.
Their turn.
Their panic.
Somewhere in the middle of all that—
drawing, acting, shouting, passing—
I go off.
Whoever is holding me
when I let loose
takes the hit.
Round over.
Reset.
Brain cells optional.

Then, of course there is Drawing on the Pigeon

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
Did you say
they draw on you?

PIGEON:
Oh yes.

I come with a marker
and a washable surface.
My dignity is… negotiable.

By the end of a good game,
I look like I’ve just returned
from a very confusing tattoo parlor.

Kids draw mustaches,
lightning bolts,
whatever the card says.

“Draw a pineapple.”
Congratulations,
you’re now holding a pigeon
with severe fruit problems.

NARRATOR:
He smirks at the mental picture—
a plastic bird covered in doodles,
passed from hand to hand
like a living sketchpad.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
So you’re not just a timer.
You’re the canvas, too.

PIGEON:
Exactly.
I am prop, punishment,
and performance space.

NARRATOR:
He listens to the imaginary ticking—
that invisible countdown
inside the pigeon’s belly.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
You seem very proud
of inducing mild panic.

PIGEON:
Timers do something funny
to the human brain.
Give someone all the time in the world,
and they hesitate.
Overthink.
Second-guess.
Give them ten seconds
and a ridiculous task,
and suddenly they’re blurting out ideas
they never would have dared otherwise.
People who swear they “can’t draw”
will start scrawling on me
like their lives depend on it.
People who are shy
will mime a chicken
doing jazz hands.
The impending “explosion”
shakes their seriousness loose.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
So you’re a little plastic permission slip
to make a fool of yourself.

PIGEON:
Precisely.

NARRATOR:
He imagines a holiday gathering—
three generations in a room,
half of them eyeing their phones,
everyone a little tired.
Someone pulls out a pigeon.
Within minutes,
Grandma is shouting clues,
a teenager is drawing something
that looks nothing like a giraffe,
and someone’s uncle is yelling,
“Pass it! Pass it! PASS IT!”

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
I can see the appeal.
You don’t need deep rules knowledge.
You don’t need to be “good at games.”
You just have to be willing
to look a little ridiculous.

PIGEON:
That’s the secret.
There are plenty of clever games
for people who want strategy.
I’m here for the rest of the crowd—
the ones who just want
a fast, shared burst of ridiculousness.
It’s not about winning.
It’s about everyone
having the same story later:
“Remember when Grandpa
totally blanked on ‘banana’
and just shouted ‘YELLOW CURVE’
until the bird screamed?”

NARRATOR:
In an age where so many memories
live on screens,
this is… different.
Home movies stored
not on a phone,
but in a shared, breathless laugh.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
You know,
I think about toys
as things you hold.
Comfort.
Imagination.
Memories.
But you—
you’re a toy that doesn’t even make sense
without a crowd.

PIGEON:
Exactly.
I’m not here for solitary reflection.
Now - “Slide the coffee table back.”
“Everybody find a seat.”
“Okay, who’s on which team?”
I only wake up when people chooseo be silly together.
That’s my whole purpose.

NARRATOR:
He looks at the box again—
the cartoon chaos,
the blur of motion.
Exploding Pigeon
doesn’t promise peace,
or quiet,
or deep conversation.
It promises
ten minutes of mayhem
held together by cardboard and plastic.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
In this series I am going to ask toys a question
I know Teddy holds fears.
I would imagine Barbie holds projections.
And Ken holds sidekick feelings.
Of course, Squishmallows hold the in-between moments.
And The dragon truck probably holds the urge to go too fast.
But What do you hold?

PIGEON (after a beat, a little softer):
I hold the moment
when grownups remember
how to play badly
on purpose.
The part of you
that’s tired of being competent
and careful
and dignified.
The part that wants to blurt out answers,
make awful drawings,
forget the obvious word
because a plastic bird is ticking in your hands.
I hold the kind of laughter
that only comes
after you’ve risked looking foolish
in front of people you feel safe with.
NARRATOR:
It’s a surprisingly tender answer
for a toy that calls itself “exploding.”

PIGEON (bright again):
Don’t get me wrong.   I’m also here for the yelling.
But under the yelling,
there’s trust.
You don’t pass me
to people you don’t trust.
You don’t let your guard down
for just anyone.
When someone agrees
to sit in the circle
and hold the pigeon,
they’re saying,
“All right.
I’ll be ridiculous with you
for a little while.”
That’s worth something.

NARRATOR:
The Night Watchman
rests his hand lightly on the box.
For a moment,
he can almost feel the weight of the pigeon,
the rattle of cards,
the invisible countdown.
He thinks of families,
friends,
birthday parties,
holiday evenings—
all the little gatherings
that might be missing
just one ridiculous bird
and a few shouted clues
to become memories.

NIGHT WATCHMAN:
I used to think
the loudest things in this museum
Must be the race cars
and the dragons.
Now I’m starting to think
it might be the laughter
you’re trying to bottle in there.

PIGEON:
Open the box sometime and find out.
Just… don’t be holding me when I go off.

NARRATOR:
He smiles, gives the box a gentle pat, and moves on down the aisle.
Behind him, Exploding Pigeon waits—quiet for now,
ready to shriek into life the next time someone opens the lid
and says, “Okay, teams. Who’s brave enough to go first?”

Ahead,
there are other games—grids filled with checkers,
towers of wobbling blocks, plastic tokens ready to rain down.

Tonight, he carries with him
the echo of imagined laughter—and the faint, ridiculous fear
of being the one caught holding the bird when it explodes.

[SFX: Footsteps fade. A quick, silly pigeon squawk, then your outro music.]

  And join conversations with toys for our next episode about HOT WHEELS ULTIMATE DUAL DRAGON TRANSPORTER called
“Speed, Teeth, and Two Lanes.”

Aquarium from Carnival of the Animals by composed by Camille Sans-Saen, Performed by the Seattle Youth Orchestra. Source: https://musopen.org/music/1454-the-carnival-of-the-animals/. License: Public Domain (composition) / Creative Commons (recording).