I’m really beginning to wonder if those damn ducks aren’t demented after all. I took the girls out for a night of karaoke last night, and came home to find the ducks…all seven of them…standing in the middle of the yard at eleven o’clock at night.
Aren’t ducks supposed to go in for the night? It wasn’t raining, so there was no strange ritual dancing around the baby pool. But still, standing in the middle of the yard…staring me down like I had interrupted a private meeting?
I hear them quacking behind my back. I know they’re up to something. I just don’t know what. Maybe they feel neglected with all the recent Clooney drama. Ducks are strange.
But clearly I have a lot in common with ducks, because I spent my evening in a place called Ann’s Pickin Palace…and surprised the hell out of myself when I had the best time I’d had in ages. I was even asked to dance by a nice older gentleman. And I said yes. I didn’t step on his toes once, and he didn’t even complain when I tried to lead. Wonders never cease.
I hear Clooney in the background crowing again. He’s like a cuckcoo clock set on a fifteen minute timer. If I’m going to keep him out of the frying pan, I need to figure out how to reset his clock. Keep the votes coming in before the husband decides his time has run out. (I know, if it isn’t cock jokes, it’s clock jokes.)
Time for new jokes, I guess. What rhymes with duck?
Until the next time…I’ll be keeping a eye on those little quackers.