Funny E-Mail About A Duck

[moe.ron]

THE FUNNIEST EMAIL EVER (about a duck).
In six months I'm going to see this poor son of a bitch hanging upside down in the front window of Lee Ho fook's at 11th and Sansom. What do you do when Barry (if in fact that is his real name) starts to

A. Quack,
B. Fly
C. S**t and
D. try to get it on at all hours of the night?

Oh sure most people on your floor will assume the loud cackling sounds are just you laughing, but after a while they'll start to figure it out. What of Barry is really Brenda? Or what if Barry is gay and you have to address those socialization issues? Poultry have feelings too, and ultimately Barry is going to be staring out the window one day and see a couple of geese in the Quad. He's going to get certain urges. Like in late November when he starts flying smack into the south wall of your apartment. Then he'll throw a fit the first time somebody cooks an oven stuffer roaster. Finally he'll cry himself to sleep under the coffee table as you adults argue over who takes him for Christmas break. No kid deserves that heartache, I don't care if he's little Johnny from Queens or a fourteen ounce fowl from Upper Montclair. I am begging you to return Barry to "his own kind" Adoption is a
wonderful thing. It gives kids who wouldn't have a chance the opportunity to be all they can be, but this bird was meant to be the featured performer at a petting zoo in Patterson. Right now there's a little kid, let's call him Ricky, with a BB gun just waiting for the chance to pick this little bastard Barry off some Friday night. And because your selfish act , this kid...Ricky, will have to go out and shoot up some lifeless windshields and maybe a common everyday pigeon. That frustration and disappointment will gnaw at Ricky, eat away at his soul until his once carefree spirit becomes a festering boil of suppressed violence. Next Ricky, no not Ricky anymore. He wants people to call him Rick, isn't satisfied with pigeons and windshields. He wants more. So he buys a used .357 and shoots the living daylights out of a Burger King sign and a cat. But you know how this story ends. One night,
after watching a Looney Tunes marathon with a heavy Daffy Duck rotation, his pent up anger boils over and he takes the .357 and bursts into a home where a family is innocently eating a take-out dinner. But just as he puts his finger on the trigger he slips on something on the floor. As he awkwardly stumbles the gun goes off and Rick, Ricky, is mortally wounded. As he lies on the floor, the life oozing out of him, he sees the slick pool on which he lost his footing. He dabs his finger into it and whispers his last words,
"Duck Sauce"
P. Greco