Ducks and Chucks,
Bear with me, friends, as I do my ducking best to define the term duckholed without losing my salmon.
You see, just yesterday, I went round to Mallard Mansion to show Mallard how to use a vacuum cleaner. But when I arrived, Mallard was wearing a floppy beret and carrying a painter's pallet. "What the duck's going on?" I asked him.
"I," replied Mallard with an elegant wing-flourish, "am now speaking French!"
Needless to quack, I was beak-to-flippers impressed. I told him this was wonderful news and asked him for a demonstration. Then I stood back, ready to be wowed by the lilting sounds of what is, in my opinion, one of the most beautiful languages ever.
"It is I," announced Mallard, "Sir Mallard! And here I am, speaking!"
I was ducking confused. "But Mallard, that's English! Aren't you going to speak any French?"
Mallard looked a smidgeon less pleased with himself. "I think you misunderstand, my fine fellow. I have dressed in stereotypically French attire, and therefore am now speaking French.
Can you ducking believe it? I had to explain to Mallard that dressing in what some might rightfully call offensively stereotypical French garb does NOT make what comes out of your beak automatically French. "There's vocabulary to learn, Mallard, and various tenses!"
"I avoid being tense as much as possible," said Mallard. "You'd be surprised how much being ostentatiously wealthy can help with that."
The truth was, Mallard was being duckholed. When you're duckholed, your way of thinking lacks duck-smarts altogether. If only you'd drop a ducklet of thought into your pond-shaped mind, you'd realize that speaking French is far harder than donning a beret and, well, speaking.
As I explained, or as Riley would put it, ducksplained, Mallard seemed to listen intently. Once I was finished, he said, "Let me just try one more time, old chap." He then cleared his throat. "WOULD ANYONE LIKE SOME RATHER NICE BRIE?" he quacked grandly and far too loudly. "I HAVE SOME LOVELY DUCK-SHAPED CRACKERS IN THE LIVING ROOM CUPBOARD."
"You can shout as much you like, but it's still English, Mallard."
Mallard gave a long sigh. "Perhaps, if I get out a canvas, I'll paint French, and then the lingo will follow swiftly!"
By the time I'd left Mallard Mansion, having NOT showed Mallard how to use a Duck-Dyson, he was painting a picture of a croissant. After all, given our conversation, Mallard had realized that "croissant" was the only French he knew.
Anyway, I know the world's super-ducking stressful right now, friends, not to mention riddled with duckholery. Please look after yourselves. You are precious indeed.