saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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Ducks are fuckers. Like clay pigeons.
While browsing about on the web this morning (instead of attending three meetings and completing a report that was due at 9:30, in accordance with my regular schedule of avoidance and blistering contempt for anything productive, and yes, that does include my own ovaries), I came across an article titled, "Ducks Ain't Stupid, You Know!"
Brilliant title. Taut. Exciting. Drew me in like a moth to a flame, mainly because of the dramatic and gently poignant use of the word "ain't." Let's all take a lesson, here.
This article was about the most effective way to hunt ducks, using decoys and the like. It gave crucial insight, such as: "Each year, I watch hunters set up in the sweet spot of topnotch water only to flare ducks with their homemade blinds." And: "I was outfitted in surplus military garb of faded jungle green or khaki, with only an occasional camo pattern." One particular paragraph I found was very interesting: "I built a portable blind out of PCV pipe and burlap that looked like a cross between an igloo and an old-fashioned outhouse. It had so many connections I had to number each one to fit it together in the field. After a lot of practice in my driveway, I could put it up in 15 minutes."
Until this moment, I had no idea that people took their shooting of ducks so seriously. The creativity and complete waste of time involved is quite astounding.
I know that this article is talking about an entirely different experience with ducks than I have had. Obviously. Many of the apartment complexes near to where I live have duck/geese ponds, so I see quite a few of our feathered friends gadding about, especially during the spring. This is the time of year that I refer to as "Dead Duck Season," because I often see more of them smashed flat on the roads than winging happily overhead, or converging upon a terrified youngster clutching a bag of breadcrumbs. The poor kid has almost definitely been dragged out to the duck pond because his parents thought it would be "fun" for him to pick his way through mounds of feathers and bird shit in order to be pecked to death on the gleaming shores of a man-made duck ghetto, which is often swathed elegantly with the screams of overfed fowl and an unearthly odor.
Once again, let's take a lesson, folks.
There are quite a few of these ponds � or, as I like to call them, open, oozing pockets of filth. Therefore, there are quite a few ducks and geese in the area. So much so that there are also quite a few "Duck Crossing" signs posted, in the attempt to keep the birds from meeting death face-to-face under the wheels of Tiffany's brand-new Mercedes with the 6-disc CD changer and sporty sunroof.
The result? Hey, those signs ain't working.
(Was my use of "ain't" jaunty and compelling? Natural? No? I'll keep at it�)
You know why the signs have little effect? I do believe that people, for the most part, pay attention when small animals are crossing the road. Short of evasive maneuvers that would cause a ten-car pile-up, I attempt to stop or change lanes for animals meandering aimlessly through four lanes of high speed traffic. And I do love ducks. They amuse me. I've been known to stop and watch a family of ducks waddling by, and I'll turn off my radio and roll the window down to hear the ducklings make "pip pip pip" sounds as they careen about like fluffy tops gone mad. And they especially like it when I screech at them about how cute they are, you little fucking ducks, GODDAMN CUTE, FUCKING HELL, I COULD STOMP ON YOU FOR ALL YOUR CUTENESS.
Despite all of this � driver caution, duck warning signs, shriekingly violent love � let's face it: Ducks. Are. Stupid.
They are.
Once, I passed a group of them, sitting in the middle of a busy road. Not crossing to the other side. No. Sitting. Lounging, even. I swear one of them was wearing a dinner jacket, sipping cognac. Another one was doing a crossword puzzle. And I don't care if that duck knew that the five-letter word for Daland's daughter in "Der Fliegende Holl�nder" is "Senta," finding it necessary to ponder in the middle of the street, surrounded by honking, rushing cars, without even the attempt to move out of the way, wipes away any admiration I may have had for his broad knowledge of Wagner opera and his ability to manipulate a pen without the use of opposable thumbs. Sorry, all. That's just one woman's opinion.
Another time when I was driving, I passed a flock of roadkill. Yes, you heard me. A flock. Six splotches of crushed beak and bone, each topped with a sprightly crown of blood-stained feathers. So the scenario could have been any one of the following:
1) One bird was killed by a passing car, and the others were a team of crime scene investigators and those fuckers who come out to gawk at accidents, and they were all run down in the prime of their lives by a semi. Tragedy.
2) That particular area of the street is known as "Dead Man's Road"�or "Dead Duck's Turning Lane," as the case may be. For some reason, many careless teenaged ducks are killed there. Grieving parents are lobbying to have the area more thoroughly policed to prevent further loss of young lives.
3) There was a flock of ducks. Sitting in the middle of the turning lane. As they do. Because they're FUCKING STUPID.
And here is where I'm confused by the article I mentioned at the beginning of this ever-so-pointless entry. Hunters are spending hundreds of dollars in equipment and research about "duck intelligence," not to mention exerting effort I cannot begin to muster, even to reach for the last Ho-Ho in the cupboard. And all of this is to outsmart and kill ducks.
Which, as you recall, are endlessly clueless and STUPID creatures.
These hunters don't need decoys or blinders or igloos of burlap. Nooo. All they have to do is walk up to any intersection in my neighborhood, where they will find a group of pitifully obtuse waterfowl sitting in a crowd, sharing cocktail wieners and nacho dip. Then the hunters can pull out an Uzi and get cracking.
And that's the last lesson I can offer you today. Go forth in the glow of knowledge.
3:58 p.m. - 2003-05-08
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