Weight of the world got you down? Think you have problems? Think you’re job’s not worth two thin dimes? Cat crawl into your car’s exhaust pipe, now it backfires hairballs and the mice are getting into the salad? Wife left you for some guy in advertising? Some girl in advertising? Doctor look at your x-ray and say, “huh,” and then reach for an actuary? Friend, whenever I have one of those days–and I have a lot of those days, friend–I’m glad I have my duck.
Because when you’ve had one of those “they’ve cut a pancake-sized hole in my head to use me for a candle-holder and now my eye’s full of wax” days, you’ve got to have a duck. Friend, you don’t want to face that kind of day without a cinnamon teal, a black-bellied whistler, or at least a mallard.
And I don’t rightly know what kind of duck I’m facing this particular day with–fact of the matter is, after the procedure, a lot of things don’t make much sense, my guess is it’s some sort of merganser, but it might be a sock with some orange beanbags stitched to it–I know that, gaping cranial hole or no, I’ll face the day with my chin high, the wind blowing through my parietal granular foveolae, and I’ll proudly, proudly show my duck. And in some small way, the day’ll be a better one for it.
Hold your duck high, my friend.
Salvation Army near 620 and 183, Austin
One Response to “It’s okay, I got my duck.”
Just what I always wanted. My own little bunny rabbit. I will name him George, and I will hug him and pet him and squeeze him and pat him and pet him and and rub him and caress him and rub him and squeeze him. I will stroke his bill and rub his pretty feathers… Hey, wait a minute! Bunny rabbits don’t have feathers and bills.