Not a fan, not in the least, and my litany of complaints is long. I might feel different if they were not federally protected, and if I lived out in the way back somewhere, it's likely that the occasional specimen would be hanging would be hanging by the feet from a clothes line while I warmed up the oven and fetched the pruning shears.
Surely, these things can be made tasty with enough butter and, perhaps, some dried pork sausage stuffing, and I can't help but think that a few hours in the oven at, maybe 400 to 425, would go a long way to improving that alarming attitude, which does not improve even with cracked corn.
No, not even the gooselings seem worth the trouble, though they can be cuter in their ungainly ways, that, as adults, do nothing to improve them in my sight, at least not like a good butter sauce would. And a bottle of red. OK, shredded and stirred in an omelet is not all that bad either.
Of course, none of the ways these gnarly beasts are pleasing involve flapping around in the world dropping crap all over creation while attacking anyone who might have the audacity to walk to the car.
How these things got past the border patrol, I have no idea, but I suspect it had something to do with Mabel telling Earl that he'd better bring something home for dinner.