Ducks should run like chickens. But not the fucking gaggle on the Western Canal bike path south of Baseline Road in Mesa, Az.
It’s like cell block D out there.
The duck boss gathers all his little gang members at dusk. They cover the concrete in shit. They sit their fat little duck assess right where my wheels need to go.
They won’t move for a hiker, a biker or a captain of the prison guards.
I haven’t done an official headcount, but there’s gotta be 50 to a 100 green headed bastards blocking the path.
It doesn’t happen everyday or every time, but at least half the time I ride that path those fucking ducks line up like riot police at a #BLM protest.
I yell. I make weird noises. I rush at them like a civil war calvary charge.
They turn their little green heads and give me the side eye like teenagers who refuse to do the dishes.
Eventually, I slow to a near stop and create enough separation to roll my 25 millimeter wide tires through the crowd.
I can only hope I don’t hit one of those ducking fucks and splay my fat ass all over the pavement.
If I fell into the canal and hit my head, could one of these little shits actually kill me?
Anger and fear is a terrible mix.
“Whack, whack, whack, whack, whack…”. Sounds like Batman killing the Penguin as they slowly step aside for my ride.
Where are the goddamn coyotes and feral cats when you need them? Something has got to put the fear of God into these little dicks — I mean ducks.
When I become homeless (looking more like when rather than if with my state retirement plan) I’ll be dining on “duck a la canal”.
I’ll grab a log and rush them like Darth Vader killing the Padawans. There’s always dried brush sitting in the alley next to the freeway — perfect for my little duck BBQ.
I can use my old wheels and spokes as a rotisserie. Four ducks a wheel. Hell, I might be able to sell the extra? Isn’t duck a delicacy? At least at the Chinese restaurants. Peking dick anyone?￼
Let’s hope those little dick ducks get the fuck out of my way, and I won’t have to find out.