Helluva Good Duck

Know what I’d love to do some day?

Smuggle- I don’t know- a duck or a goose or something- across the country. One coast to another. It could ride incognito on the passenger side, traveling for weeks and maybe months at a time. We’d ride with our heads all low, just cruising cool as salad across state line after state line.

Sure, sometimes we would be followed.

But if anybody cried fowl along the way, I’d say, “Nah, not with me. Prolly just a low flying pillow or something.” And they’d buy it, ’cause folks are dopey mostly, or at least more inclined to laugh than ask questions.

And so we’d be off again. Just like that. Free and clear for another day. And I’d course through the veins of this nation, drunk on a cocktail of straight wind and freedom. Out of control with the love of my life…

The only thing stopping me, keeping me still, is that nobody’s on the watch for duck smugglers. Not yet. If the authorities happened to stop me these days, they’d only think I’m a farmer or a weirdo. And I’m not saying that they’re wrong either way. Still, would it kill them to impose a fine or something? Just a little one- nothing drastic. Not until it catches on, at least. I’d just like to know what I’m doing is pissing them off.

Is that too much to ask?

It’s not like I don’t understand the reasons against all this. I get it. It’s ridiculous, it’s silly, it’s pointless, it’s strange- really, I get it. But in all honesty… what if that’s all I could ever bring myself to do? Duck smuggling. If it turns out that there could never be anything else for me, if that is really all I could ever, ever do? Inaction or duck smuggling. Unhappiness or bliss. In that case, wouldn’t living out some crazy dream be better than doing nothing, for a lifetime?

“QUACK! QUACK! QUACK!”

Thank you. That’s what I thought.

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