Please read it all.
I am a duck.
I would, quite dearly, like to that follow that statement with the phrase “But I am no ordinary duck” and then perhaps “For I am Superduck!” or “I am a mutant duck!” or even as far as “I am one of those ducks that you throw tiny pieces of bread at quite diligently but yet I ignore it, acting as though I think that eating food thrown from inferior human hands is simply distasteful”.
Unfortunately, I cannot follow that statement with any of these particular sentences, for I am not a superhero, I was never exposed to any form of radiation that could cause me to become a mutant, and I gobble up every tiny bit of anything thrown at me, be it some delicious Italian bread baked fresh from your local bakery, or a large chunk of plastic, taken, perhaps, from the garbage of the local bakery at which you were too cheap to buy me a delicious Italian bread that was baked fresh. Incidentally, I have eaten more plastic than bread as of this writing. I hope to have more bread in the future. Plastic tends to have a rather tough consistency.
But I digress.
I am a duck.
That statement in itself can be read in a variety of ways. It can be read in an astonished sort of way, read at about an average speed, accenting the word “duck”. It could be read in a thoughtful sense, pausing after the word “I”, and then continuing quickly, as if a roller-coaster paused at the top of a hill, and then shot down it. It could be read in a reassuring way, with a kind voice, the emphasis on “am”.
It is not to be read in any of those ways.
But once again, I find myself out on a tangent. I shall pick up where I left off.
I am a duck.
But, just in case you were wondering, it is to be read in the most expressionless way possible, emphasizing no word and leaving even amounts of space between each word. It is to be read in what the rest of my flock would call “an ironic sense”.
My flock uses the term “ironic” too freely. They just don’t know what it means. I seem to be the only one. Perhaps they don’t understand because they’ve never had irony in their lives. After all, most people don’t expect ducks to be as socially advanced as to experience first-hand the phenomenon known as “irony”.
Irony is what gave me this personality.
Irony is what made me funny. It gave me the humor. People like the humor. I like the humor.
No, I don’t. I don’t like the humor.
God, I hate the humor.
I just wish I could tear it all off. The sarcasm, the cynicism, the humor. Just rip it’s cold clutches from my feathery body.
But I can’t.
I believe you humans are familiar with a story of “The Ugly Duckling”. There is an aftermath to this story that is not quite as pleasant as the story itself. The main character, who, at the end of the story, turns into a swan, happens to live in my pond. As a youthful duck at this time, I was dating a swan by the name of Penny. Penny was a very wonderful swan, nice, pretty, brilliant. It is very uncommon for a duck to be dating a swan, but not completely unheard of. I was quite glad to be dating such a marvelous swan.
Then along comes the Ugly Duckling, who is not ugly anymore. Immediately, Penny falls in love with his smooth ways.
I knew I was losing her. I knew that I must do something to save her. So, I buy her chocolates.
Apparently she was allergic to chocolates.
So, in an attempt to save our dying relationship, I put the nail in the coffin. And there’s the irony.
For the record, the nail and the coffin are both proverbial. Ducks find it difficult to grasp hammers. Webbed feet aren’t great for that.
I would do anything to get Penny back. For the record, I do not dislike this “Ugly Duckling”. I am simply jealous of him, and I wish to see him BURN in the FIERY INFERNOS OF HELL!
But once again, I find myself straying farther and farther from the intended subject. I remember, now, what it was.
I am a duck.