NEWPORT, OR — For years, coastal visitors have suspected foul play when it comes to the mysterious yet highly strategic poop splatters appearing on their vehicles after a peaceful day at the beach. Today, in a shocking and unprecedented confession, Newport’s seagull community has finally come clean: yes, they are doing it on purpose.

Speaking exclusively with a particularly smug-looking seagull named Randy, we uncovered the truth behind the avian aerial assault that has plagued car owners for generations. "Oh yeah, we got a whole system," Randy admitted between bites of a stolen French fry. "See, we scope out the parking lot first. If it’s dull, dusty, whatever—who cares? But if that baby is fresh out of the car wash, gleaming in the sun? Oh, it’s go-time."

According to Randy, the seagulls have an organized ranking system, with senior birds taking prime bombing spots on the highest lampposts while the rookies practice on unsuspecting tourists. "We take pride in our work," he explained, motioning with his wing toward a particularly artistic splatter on the hood of a brand-new Tesla. "See that? That’s a textbook splat. Took Barry three years to master that trajectory."

Barry, a plump seagull who had been chuckling hysterically from a nearby bench, could barely contain himself. "Dude, you should have seen the guy’s face," he wheezed. "He had just finished wiping off his windshield, right? Steps back to admire it, looks so proud—BAM! Right in the middle. I damn near fell off the lamppost laughing."

And they do laugh. The moment a direct hit lands, the gulls erupt into chaotic, gleeful cackles that, to the untrained ear, may sound like normal seagull squawking. But to those who have suffered their wrath, the laughter is undeniable. One unfortunate tourist, still dabbing at a fresh attack on his Subaru, swore he saw a group of them high-fiving each other with their wings. "They do it for sport," he muttered, shaking his head. "They watched me from the pier, waited for me to close my sunroof, and then—BOOM. It was personal."

When questioned about why they choose to target Newport, Randy shrugged. "Great seafood, nice people, lots of tourists. Plus, the wind here makes for some solid air support," he said. "Other places don’t have the same…how do you say…perfect bombing conditions."

Local residents have tried everything to thwart the seagull air force. Fake owls, car covers, even aggressively waving their arms while yelling, “Not today, Satan!” But nothing works. In fact, Randy claims these efforts only make them more determined. "You run? We chase. You scream? We laugh harder," he said, his beady eyes glinting with pure mischief.

As the sun set over the Yaquina Bay Bridge, the gulls prepared for their evening meeting—a gathering of feathery hooligans perched on the Newport Seafood & Wine Festival sign, plotting their next targets. "Tomorrow’s gonna be a big one," Randy whispered, nudging Barry. "That guy with the Mustang is back in town. Chrome rims. Not a single smudge. It’s gonna be glorious."

And with that, the seagulls cackled into the night, ready to rain terror—and poop—on the next batch of unsuspecting victims.