I’m Not a Duck. I Could be a Duck. I Just Don’t Want to be a Duck.

First off, I’m not a duck. A duck has feathers and a quack quack mouth. I have a skin suit and a talk talk mouth. Secondly, ducks are always naked. I’m only naked when I take a shower, model for an art class, and misinterpret the phrase “get comfortable” at my girlfriend’s parents’s summer home. I understand literature. At least the stories I’ve read. Ducks can’t understand literature. At least the ducks I know.

However, I could be duck. I could buy feathers from Michael’s and hot glue them to my lu lu lemons. Slap two paper plates together for a bill and dunk my head into a fish tank. I could make my arms go flap flap and fly south for the winter. Meet a lady duck and start a family. Already my penis is shaped like a corkscrew.

But here’s the thing: I don’t want to be a duck. Ducks are small. They’re like wet loafers floating in a lake. They make awful sounds. Like Lady Gaga floating in a lake. Ducks are often fooled by men in orange hats and wooden mouth horns. These flannel-clad men shoot the ducks and people eat them! If I were a duck, I run the risk of being eaten and enjoyed by the mouth of some pimple-faced teen going on his first date at a French restaurant.

No. Thank you. I’d rather not be a duck.