Mr. President Steals My Banded Duck

As I slowly leveled my shotgun and began tracking the unsuspecting hen eider flying across the horizon, a fragment of choked back laughter and the quick shuffle of feet momentarily distracted me. Before I could react to the disturbance, a single round of 12 gauge shot blasted forth from Mr. President’s Mossberg shotgun. As I attempted to recover from this erratic, unscheduled breach of shooting etiquette, I watched as the duck I had been tracking nose dived into the salty brine of the Atlantic. As we motored to retrieve the downed duck, I attempted to comprehend what I had done to the President to deserve such an underhanded, back stabling action, my brother said forth the following, “Steve that bird El President stole from you has a band.”

At that moment, a torrent of obscenities burst forth from my mouth, in such a powerful onslaught of vulgarity that they threatened to capsize the boat. You might say I was possessed, seeming unable to control the 4 letter words as they spewed from the dark recesses of my soul, in a display so sinister they even made my brother and Mr. President blush.

As I started to recover from my shock and disbelief, I pondered through the complexities of the healing process and crafted the following poem to my “friend”, Mr. President.

--------------------------------

Mr. President’s Dark Heart

There once was a man for Beals Island.

Whose friendship I had grow to rely on.

That is until that sad day.

When he stole my duck away.

Because his heart is as dark as a Cylons.

--------------------------------

It is truly amazing the power words have in lifting a person’s spirits. Now that I have worked my way through the various stages of pain and suffering, I begin to see why I make my trips to Beal’s Island only once every 4-5 years. I suppose this event is Mr. Presidents way of getting me back for not shooting that Wood Duck this season or perhaps the yearly pike fishing fiascos, either way revenge is sweet my friend . . . revenge is sweet.

For more on this sorted tale and another poem dealing with the debauchery from Mr. President’s perspective, please see “Ode to Ye Friend Rabid”.

Duckpower Incorporated in Danger of Folding

I hope that everyone enjoys this jointly organized attack on our beloved friend the Duckman. He had apparently gotten a little bit big for his britches and needed a good shake down, of which we were more than happy to provide. Please add many additional comments poking fun at my good buddy Mr. President.

A spokesman from the corporate offices of Duckpower, Inc. has confirmed rumors of a possible shutdown.  It seems that many employees and one founding member of the company have become increasingly disgruntled at the leadership being displayed by the company’s President, Mr. Duckman.   There have long been accusations of abuse from the highest office, but loyal followers of the company have been encouraged to sweep those thoughts under the rug for the sake of the business.  The head of the Southern division was overheard saying that “the mental abuse and constant ridicule displayed by Mr. President towards his loyal employees were sure to bring an end to what some have said was a shaky union to begin with”.

It seems that the problems started with an unpaid corporate fishing sponsorship.  Mr. President, who apparently agreed to sponsor and employee’s bass tournament failed to fulfill his sponsorship obligations because the sponsored team did not technically “win” the tournament. Our sources say that the bill was never paid and tensions started to run a little high in the Southern Division.

I Am SOOOO Pretty!

The Northern Division of the company can be considered even more unstable.  The relationship between Mr. President and his co-founder Mr. Duckhammer (AKA Rabid Outdoorsman) and his brother, the one simply know as Diesel is a difficult one to explain, to say the least.

It has been reported that on many occasions, Mr. President has abused his power, using it to his distinct advantage, in blatant attempts to elicit sexual favors from his constituents. As proof of his debauchery, this ½ naked photo of Mr. President clearly depicts him staring lovingly at the cameraman, poor Vice President Diesel, in a vain attempt to seduce him with his powerful animal magnetism. This was of course only the beginning of Mr. President’s sexually deviant behavior.

Sometimes NO Means NO

Now if this was the final extent of shame that Mr. President had wrought upon Duck Power he could have perhaps, if subjecting himself to therapy for his sexual addiction, been forgiven. Unfortunately, this is not the final story of disgrace and shame upon which he has brought down on Duck Power. Note this additional photo that documents his unwanted fondling of my shoulder. Sure it may seem innocent but trust me this is a slippery slope ending in ruin and it is certainly not the first time that Mr. President has brought shame up us.

Perhaps even worse than his sexual perversion is Mr. President’s shameful shooting skills. Far be it for me to write about such indiscretions but rather find it more appropriate to highlight it on video. Please if you dare, take a few minutes to see this disturbing footage (WARNING, it is riddled with vulgarity.)

In retrospect of these vile acts against humanity and his molestation of waterfowl, we the members of Duck Power Incorporated feel it best to simply end with an impeachment of Mr. President. Viva La Revolution!!

Mr President's 2011 Duck Hunting Opener

In this story, the honorable President of Duck Power Incorporated returns to Central Maine for the annual duck hunting opener. In this classic tale, he battles against lower intestinal issues, raw meat, drenching rain and gluten free cookies. If you are a regular reader of my blog you will certainly remember some of my other Mr. President tall tales such as: Mr. President, the award winning Mr. President's New Waders, Mr. President's Hard Water Adventure I and Mr. President's Hardwater Adventure II and finally Mr. President's Bronze Back Adventure. Please enjoy this latest tale in the Mr. President story series!

My last foggy recollection, on the eve of the 2011 duck hunting opener, consisted of me belting out the chorus of the Hank William classic “Family Tradition”, as the Duckman (AKA Mr. President) keep perfect beat with his lactose intolerant flatulence.

After that sorted show, a sleepy head crashed down on a pillow and my tired mind refused to even dream. The alarm wailed at 4:30 AM and I already smelled coffee. Stumbling down stairs, I noted the boys were already in a tizzy to get started. Mr. President was half heartedly choking down a gluten free bagel. Seeing his apparent displeasure, I gagged in sympathy, at the mere prospect of consuming such a vile conglomeration of ingredients.

Against my every attempt at holding back our early arrival at the blind, the boys were hot and horny to get moving and we arrived at the blind with MUCH time to spare. The remaining 1/2 hour before legal was spent sitting quietly in the dark, with only the sound of frequent tobacco spitting breaking the silence.

Despite his belligerent mockery of my indoor horseshoe pit, inability to cook steaks past rare, failure to successfully carry a tune and complete lack of basic story telling etiquette, when the chips were down and someone needed a shotgun shell, who do you think was suddenly Mr. President's best buddy. Never be it for the Mr. President to underestimate the power of that Jack-O’-Lantern grin of his. I am just surprised that he didn’t talk ME into walking back to the 4 wheeler to get his “special” shells out of his blind bag!!

As the morning progressed into that magical time know at “legal shooting hours”, our band of brave hunters attempted to silhouette flying ducks, against untimely dark skies, with each strike of lightening. Eventually as the heavy rain subsided and thunder and lightening abated, I looked across the pond and noted that somehow we had managed to shoot somewhere in the neighborhood of 3-4 ducks.

Commanding my faithful retrieve Onyx into the fray of water, mud, weeds and rotten blow downs, I directed her to each of the downed ducks. As she collected her prizes and returned to the blind, I counted the casualties, green winged teal, mallard (green head), green winged teal, mallard. A good first round of action was had but unfortunately for me, Mr. President had not yet harvested his promised drake wood duck.

In his time hunting puddle ducks with me, Mr. President has managed to take many ducks that are foreign to a die hard “sea duck” hunter. Female wood ducks, green winged teal, blue winged teal, green heads, etc. One of his last avifauna to add to his life list is a drake wood duck, which over the years has managed to elude him.

Staring at my watch, I noted that much time was still available for him to complete this monumental task BUT would it be enough time. Staring at his normally happy face, I could see the edgings of disappointment (or maybe it was gas?!?!). Even his 7:30 AM downing of two mallards, in a spectacular display of shooting prowess, seemed to do little for his growing displeasure. At 8:00 AM I even instructed him to take an easy 5 yard crossing right to left swinging shot at a green winged teal, propelled by a 20 knot tail wind. In a clear display at how distraught he was, at my inability to get him a drake wood duck, he missed this easy shot.

As our end time neared, a streak of colorful feathers flew by our blind and I yelled to Duckman SHOOOOOOT WOOOD DUCK! Mr. President leaped up from his perch, rifled forth a quick 3 round volley of high velocity steel #6s into the ozone, re-loaded and fired three more. Something wood duck like fell from the sky and landed on the other side of the marsh in several pieces.

Understanding the complexity of the retrieval situation, I grabbed Onyx and our new Duck Power Incorporated “pledge” Travis and proceeded to wade around to the other side of the marsh. At this point, Mr. President was not able to help us retrieve his fallen duck, as he was busy completing his morning routine of doctor prescribed gluten cleansing physical therapy exercises . . . at least that is what he said and who am I to question a medical professional.

Struggling against the mud, beaver cut stick poles, blow downs and generally the nastiest bit of swamp hell you can imagine, the sharp eyes of our new pledge spotted the white underbelly of a wood duck. As Onyx swam in for the retrieve, I said a silent prayer to the duck Gods and hoped against hope that I had managed to fulfill my promise to Mr. President. As the dog brought the badly mangled bunch of twisted meat and feathers to my hand, I let out a deep sigh of disappointment noting that a promise had been broken. With head hung low, I headed back to the blind.

Upon sharing the news, to my surprise I was not met with a verbal beating but rather old Mr. President gave me a hearty man hug and thoroughly thanked me for the fantastic time I had shown him. He went on to mention he was excited to return next year and join me on yet another “opener”. In fact, he even offered me one of his gluten free ginger snap cookies!! As I choked back the moist cookie, tasting of swamp water and pocket lint, I noted that my assessment of this situation had been badly skewed. In my flurry of concern for Mr. President's delicate feelings, I had missed the crucial fact that hunting is more than just shooting a trophy duck . . . hunting . . . perhaps . . . is just a little bit more. And what happened then? Well in Augusta they say the Rabid Outdoorsman’s small heart grew three sizes that day!

For an alternate set of truths on this tale. Please see Mr. President's Blog.

Hello Kitty Critter Getter

It is certainly no secret, that the DDH (otherwise known as Duck Man and the most honorable president of Duck Power Incorporated) is often the unfortunate target of my taunts, jokes and other assorted abuse. This is not to say, I hold any ill will toward the man, it is simply the way the male species bonds and displays their admiration for other members of the sporting tribe. As DDH pulled in the dooryard, I could hardly contain my excitement as I waited to unveil my latest practical joke. Though fully expected not to have quite the same humor level as the now infamous "wader" incident, the angst of the duck hunting opener, the exposure of West Grand, the brutality of the bronze back adventure or last season's forays to the hard water I still hoped that my latest attempt at poking fun at DDH would at least have smile cracking potential.

To best understand the jokes "practicality" one must be provided with some background. You see DDH is the proud papa to two beautiful little girls. Now these two have seen fit on occasion to glamorize and fashionize DDHs sporting equipment. These "upgrades" run from red ribbons tied on duck decoys, naked Barbies hidden in his hunting coat pocket and the book "My Little Ponies Rescue Fairy Town" stuck into his backpack. The latest accessorization incident occurred a few weeks ago, when DDH realized that all his ice-fishing traps were sporting "Hello Kitty" stickers. A blog post alerted me to this fact and provided me with all the ammunition I needed.

After DDH managed to settle in and relax, I knew his guard was down so I started to slowly build my "case". I carefully spent several minutes showing off my various models of "critter getters", including the wounded woodpecker, rabbit and squirrel I mentioned to DDH that I had a "special" contraption guaranteed to bring the coyotes running I had fabricated especially for his visit. As DDH's finely honed crap detector began to anticipate "trap" and his spidey senses reached their tingling climax, I knew it was THE moment to strike and I unveiled "Hello Kitty".

To try and explain DDHs reaction would prove difficult.Though I did manage to provoke a grin from him resembling that of a Halloween Jack-o’-Lantern, I think he failed to see the humor in my actions or the critter getting potential of my latest and greatest creation. As I attempted to relay these facts, DDH pulled an icy cold one out of his pocket, eased down on the couch, turned a deaf ear to my taunts and began reading "My Little Ponies Rescue Fairy Town".

Mr. Presidents Bronze Back Adventure

Under increasingly threatening skies and against every ounce of better judgment, Mr. President and I grabbed our fishing poles and headed out for No Name Pond.  With fall color creeping into the landscape, a late season foray into the world of the local large mouthed bass fishery had me less than hopeful. Tempering my pessimistic thoughts, however, was a wildly grinning and infectiously enthusiastic Mr. President. He explained that the bass were hungry and tired from their long summer days of hanging in tepid waters and would be voracious this time of year as the waters cooled, the approaching fall days signaling primal urges in their bellies. Somehow, the exulted leader of “Duck Power Incorporated”, seemingly always possess the ability to elicit confidence, in even the most dire of situations.

As small droplets of rain began ricocheting off the fenders of the ATV, I hit the throttle and we screamed off into the quickly deteriorating weather forecast. Arriving at the pond, I gradually flipped over the old canoe, first warning Mr. President that often paper wasps found the underside of the canoe a hard to resist spot for building lakeside vacation homes. We both let out a sigh of relief, finding that no stinging, winged avengers were present.

Gently entering the ancient watercraft, it creaked and moaned like an old man trying to get out of bed in the morning. Constructed of slowly deteriorating fiberglass and with more patches than my Grandfathers old hunting coat, the old girl was in need of a vast amount of TLC. Suffering from approximately four decades of abuse, by various means of outdoor debauchery, water leaked through the floorboards at a constant and regular rate.

Not to be discouraged, by neither the rain entering our faulty craft from above nor the water seeping in from below, was the venerable Mr. President. While lesser men may have crumbled in such dreary conditions, Mr. President only flashed that Jack O’ Lantern sized smile, that despite the heavy cloud cover, had me squinting so hard you could have blindfolded me with dental floss.

Unawares was I, Mr. President had come equipped, for this endeavor, with a selection of bass enticing lures certain to leave the bronze backs unable to maintain a single ounce of composure. I struggled not to take offense, as Mr. President almost collapsed in the bottom of the canoe, at my suggestion of using a Frog Jitter Bug and he scoffed loudly at my usage of a six-inch minnow imitation Rapala.

Mr. President confidently tied on a ZOOM Super fluke and landed three fish in as many casts. Watching his artful fishing display, I became consciously aware that my mouth was hanging open and I was drooling, Finally regaining composure, I asked if perhaps he might have another of those fancy lures. Cutting his line and handing over the secret weapon, I have to admit I was somewhat astonished. While it certainly is within Mr. President’s nature to be a “gift full” individual, it is not typically in his nature to pass up an opportunity to shamelessly badger his opponent.

Bracing myself for the anticipated onslaught of comments, Mr. President instead began to calmly peruse his collection of lures.  After several decisive minutes of reviewing various candidates, he finally decided on using a “Terminator” spinner bait. As if it was even possible to catch fish at an even exponentially faster rate, I sat in disbelieving angst. Fast forward one hour and I was shamelessly begging Mr. President for the “Terminator”. Again brashly cutting his line, he handed over secret weapon #2 and quickly switched to ripping up the waters with a “Blue Fox”, now seemingly on a mission to search and destroy. Mr. President fiendishly worked the flats and structure in an all out effort to break his all time single day catch record. Despite my best efforts to throw him off his game, by eliciting subtraction penalties from the many pickerel and perch caught, his numbers kept adding up. As the sun began to sink low, the President, nursing an aching wrist and heavily growling stomach, boated his fiftieth large mouth bass of the day.

I suppose somewhere in this sorted excursion, I should mention that during this wild tale of fishing excellence, Mr. President additionally managed to boat what he described as the second biggest large mouth bass of his life. Being an ex-tournament bass fisherman, this is an extraordinary task, to not only beat his all time daily record but also be so close to beating his all time bass fishing size record. Though I can take no kudos for the ultimate fishing display, by Mr. President, I do take great satisfaction in the fact that I chose our fishing location and was there to enjoy his through trouncing of his previous fishing record. I figure, as my gym teacher always told me in High School, if you can’t be an athlete be an athletic supporter. Congrats Buddy!

Mr. President's Hard Water Adventure II

As the sun crept slowly across the horizon and the temperature began to drop, I began to question if we would catch anything. We were fishing a shallow cove within spitting distance of the boat landing. Gazing out across the dozens of old ice holes dotting the lakes icy surface, I began to question my judgment. Could it be possible that due to its proximity to the boat launch the cove had effectively been “fished out”? As I pondered this thought, my concerns were momentarily directed toward the shifting wind, now forcing a considerable frigid breeze onto our position. Perhaps our increased discomfort would signal the fish to bite?!?!

Turning an eye toward Mr. President, I noted that he was getting out of his chair for the 3rd time in an hour to go and re-check his baits. Somehow an off hand comment slipped from my lips referring to him being a Master Baiter. In response, I received a disappointing look and a statement to the fact that lazy drunks who sit in their chairs all day never catch fish. At this point, I had just enough liquid courage in my system to refute this fact and specifically state the multiple occasions where the drunkest of the bunch had managed to catch exquisite fish specimens. As my brain began its digressions into the data behind previous successful fishing expeditions and the proportional high consumption of alcohol, I could quickly see Mr. President’s was completely unimpressed with my analysis.

It was at this point, that Mr. President yelled out an excited flag! I immediately noted that my furthest tip-up had sprung! Racing across the slippery surface my life flashed before my eyes on several occasions. Running 200 yards across a frozen lake has the same heart accelerating moments, as leaning back in a chair several dozen times and barely catching yourself from a bad fall.

Approaching the hole, I was please to see that the line was spooling off with authority, and then suddenly it stopped. Impatiently I waited to see if it would start moving again and minutes later the line again began its speedy descent to Davey Jones Locker. Upon removing the tip-up from the hole, a roster tail of spray erupted off the reel and I knew that I had hooked a pike. Gently setting the number 6 hook, I cautiously started to haul in the small gator. Even a small pike, could snap my 12 lb mono with its toothy mouth should I not be careful. Moments later I could see the pikes familiar snakelike shape swim by the hole and in one quick motion; I swung the fish up, through the hole and onto the ice. The 24-inch Northern Pike had managed to completely swallow my hook and a 5-inch dead smelt, I was using for bait, almost to its butt hole. Rather than risk losing a digit, I simply cut and retied a new leader. Experience from previous encounters with these finger shredders, had taught me to be respectful. Even in death these toothy creatures can inflict serious wounds.

After managing some pictures and high fives we retired back to the comforts of the shoreline and the warmth of a small campfire. Lunch was provided in the form of red hotdogs (a Maine ice fishing favorite). There is something about mystery meat and red dye number 7, slow roasted over the coals of the campfire, that make me want to flop down on the ice and shake my leg like a dog. It is almost to good to describe in words, that meaty charcoal flavor that is only accentuated by eating it off a stick in the great outdoors.

Of course leave it to Mr. President to get a flag right in the middle of my good time. Barely had that first succulent log of mechanically separated animal "parts" passed by my lips when he was off like a man shot from a cannon. His excited screams echoed across the lake, reminding me of a time when I threw a frog in with my Mom while she was in the shower. Racing off behind him, I readied my camera for his first “Pike” encounter. As I approached the hole, I could hear his shouting above the wind that he could see the Pike swimming back and forth in the shallow water. Odd I thought. Frantically pulling up on the line, his face twisted into a strange perverse shape and I knew that something had gone dreadfully wrong. Instead of a Pike Mr. President had procured the BIGGEST Mud Puppy I have ever seen.

Despite my multiple (taunts) suggestions, that he submit it to an official set of scales, to be added to the state record books, instead the slippery critter managed to find a new home in one of MY ice fishing holes . . . touché Mr. President touché.

For more lies, exaggeration and misdirection click HERE to visit Mr. Presidents retort!

Mr. President's Hard Water Adventure

Pacing nervously back and forth on my front door step, I began to grow impatient at Mr. President for being an annoying and irritating “on time”. What he had failed to grasp was the simple fact, that when he is operating on my dime the expectation is that he be early. Upon his arrival, I attempted to explain to him the complexities of the situation and how his discourteous nature had caused me undue anxiety. He simply ignored my comments and mumbled something about gutting me like a fish, if I didn’t quit bellyaching. He added that there would be additional pain administered, if I did not take him to a spot where we need to use his 4-wheeler. Apparently, after transporting the “Big Bear” in the back of his truck over and through 300 miles of black ice, frost heaves and tornadoes any misstep on my part not to include the wheeled transport in our fishing activities would be met with dismemberment. I informed him that in fact, he was “lucky” since today we would be fishing on foot BUT that tomorrow the 4-wheeler would prove to be a valuable asset, as we explored N. Pike waters in the remote corners of Great Pond. To this comment, I received a favorable grunt of acceptance and relief that I would not be seeing my lower intestines anytime soon.

Loading our gear into my truck, I noted that Mr. President had decided to bring his ice auger. As he dropped it into the back of my truck, I asked if it was operating at peak efficiency? Mr. President replied with a sarcastic “Well, it wouldn’t be worth bringing if it wasn’t.” Marveling at his logic and my stupidity, I decided to go for Olympic gold and ask an even more foolish question. So, Mr. President does that auger have any gas in it? With a grunt and a smirk, I received a “Some, should be enough to drill a few holes”.

At the completion of this witty retort, we were in the truck and heading to the hard water. Our intended destination, the shallow waters of Great Pond in Belgrade to target N. Pike and any other fish species foolish enough to lock horns with our fishing prowess. As we peeled out of the driveway and pointed the truck toward the interstate, AC/DC tuned away in the background. In my best big boy voice, I explained to Mr. President that while he was in MY truck there would be no Lady GaGa, JayZ, Tic Toc nonsense and that if he wanted to hear top 40 he could walk. As Mr. President pulled out his filet knife, I immediately switched the station to 97.1 WHIPHOP.

Twenty five minutes later, we pulled into the boat landing high on the anticipation of an afternoon eating good food, telling tall tales, soaking in the sun’s rays and even maybe possibly catching a fish. As we approached the edge of the lake, I was amazed to find that very little snow covered the surface. A glaring, shimmering ice field stretching as far as the eyes could see. Walking on the ice surface, in my rubber boots, I was about as coordinated as a walrus trying to play the piano. As I struggled to maintain my balance, Mr. President walked confidently across the ice with crampons fit for climbing Mt. Everest. Scoffing and insulting his preparedness, I suggested that if he was so well equipped maybe HE should drill ALL of the ice holes. To this remark, I received one of Mr. President’s patented smirks.

As I slid and tumbled across the slippery surface, I finally managed to get in my five tip-ups. In the time it took me to complete this task, Mr. President was able to drill 20 holes, set his 5 lines, jig for 30 minutes, eat a hot dog and knit a sweater. Exhausted and sweating like a pig, I finally managed to return to the shoreline and the sweet taste of traction.

Like most afternoons, spent with Mr. President, it was filled with debauchery. He managed to tip my furthest tip-up, while I was at the truck conducting a beer run. He laughed himself almost silly as he watched me run across 300 yards of slippery ice. In payback, I poisoned him by feeding him red hotdogs until his colon threatened to slide out his anus . . . ahh, the sweetness of revenge. Unfortunately, I now have to re-paint my bathroom and buy another case of fart spray.

Next, the Court Jester manages a Northern and Mr. President wrestles a new state record from the murky depths. Also, for an alternate set of truths check out Mr. Presidents story.

Mr. President's NEW Waders

If we all have a role to play, then I am surely the anointed comedian or humorist of Duck Power Incorporated. Perhaps it is no coincidence that 100 years ago this role would have been more aptly named court jester or simply "fool". Because of this unnatural dysfunction, I am always devising inventive and interesting ways to harass and pester my duck hunting brethren. Of particular note, is the great wader debacle of the 2009 waterfowl opener.

Mr. President had arrived at my house carrying a sizeable rectangular package, reeking of silicone and with the words "Cabela's" stenciled across the front. With a titanic size smile, he proudly announced to me, as well as most of my neighborhood, "My new waders!!"

In the interest of time, I was instructed to open the package and have the waders ready for him to wear before he returned from "dropping the kids off at the pool". Not wanting to miss such a valuable opportunity to "assist" the President, I immediately went to work replacing his new space age neoprene 1600 waders with my old, beat-up and muddy 10 year old antiques.

With eager anticipation, I awaited Mr. Presidents return. As he opened the box, I could see his smile slightly waiver. Despite his very best efforts he appeared, a very out of character, rattled. I boldly blazed forward with comments about shipping miscalculations and the accidental delivery of sub par second hand merchandise. I even unabashedly stated, that at the very least they could have washed the mud off before shipping.

With a concerned half smile, Mr. President brushed off my barrage of derogatory remarks and attempted to defend his "new" waders. I believe he even stated that the mud covering them was some new high tech camouflaging method. Finally, I could hold it together no longer and laughing like a lunatic proceeded to haul the Presidents waders out of their hiding place. Mr. President breathed a slight sigh of relief but not a single chuckle escaped his pursed lips. Instead I received that most disapproving of looks and a simple . . . "Not cool!"

Please stop by "The Downeast Duck Hunter's Blog" for what can only be described as an alternate perspective on an already shaky set of truths!

Mr. President

I haven’t slept well in the last week as the opener of the 2010 waterfowl season approaches. My slumber is thwarted by vivid visions of triples and vibrant green heads falling to my expert marksmanship. Alas if only some dreams could echo a flicker of reality.

Perhaps even more nerve wracking than my mental fatigue from my fitful evenings is the physical exhaustion I am suffering as I prepare the estate for a visit from the Honorable Potentate and Grand Puba . . . the most admirable and exalted President of Duck Power Incorporated. Yes folks, none other than the DuckMan will be joining me for the 2009/10 waterfowl opener.

As is the expected appointment of any host, to the anointed president, it is my charge to insure that all necessary and unnecessary accouterments and accompaniments are prepared and accounted. This includes a laundry lists of events, activities and proceedings that must be completed with military precision.

As I await the arrival of Mr. President, I begin to go over the checklist to insure every detail no matter how small has been rightly accounted. I drill the children with the proper sounds made by Mallards, Teal and Wood Ducks and insure they are holding their popguns with the “dangerous end” pointing in a safe direction.

As I frantically begin to pull together the last minute details, I hear the distant sound of tires slowly rolling up a gravel driveway and know that Mr. President has arrived. Hurriedly, I grab for the camouflage (Max 4 Adv.) carpet and unfurl it to the door of Mr. President’s transport. I take a deep breath and wait for the inspection to begin. Wish me luck!!