Why, hello! 'Tis I, Sir Mallard Jones! I am happy to say that I, myself, and moi have been welcomed onto this Chuckle Duck blogette by my best frenemy Duck T, in order to add some classic sparkle to your day. You see, when it comes to self-love, my old fruits, yours truly is often "on fire." (This is a phrase I learned from Duck. Apparently, it does NOT mean you must hastily locate a bucket of water.) But recently, I found a hole in my self-love. A donut-shaped hole. And intriguing as holes can be, this was NOT a good hole.
It was a hole filled with SHAME.
You see, I come from a very wealthy family who made themselves wealthy through a great deal of duck crime. Yes, I know I seem like an aristocratic duck who's always been a "sir" from the beginning of time, but believe it or not, the only reason I was knighted by dear Lisbet—allow me a sad sniff—was because of my voluntary work during the National Cabbage Rebellion of 1998. Were it not for moi, those rich people who were hurling cabbages onto the main court at Wimbledon for a reason no one could actually ascertain would have been all over the news. But I managed to deliberately steal the story's thunder by having an affair with Sir Elton John. It made the headlines, though there was a slight court case afterwards, which is why I need to actually say I allegedly had an affair with Sir Elton John.
Anyway, I digress.
The truth is, I come from a long line of crime ducks. So when I saw Duck's latest exquisite bathrobe made of terry cotton and embroidered with a flowing D, I decided to lend it to myself.
However, apparently when you lend yourself something that isn't yours, it's actually THEFT.
How down in the beak I was when Duck put me straight (but not that straight, because I, Sir Mallard Jones, am more than a wee bit gay). "Alas!" cried I, as I wandered up and down the Mallard Mansion Roof Garden, as Duck watched, "bewildered" (his word). "I have become my ancestors! The darkness that lies in my duck-heart can ne'er be quelled!"
At this point, Duck stopped looking angry and did what only the finest of British duck friends would do in such a situation. He told me not to be too hard on myself, because intention is everything, and then he took me downstairs and made me a cup of tea in my nineteenth century kettle, which always gives it that unmistakable brassy taste.
"Now listen, Mallard," he quacked as I dipped my beak into my simple beverage. "I was angry with you about the bathrobe, but now that I know you just haven't been taught how to borrow things, it sheds a new light on the whole thing." It turns out that when he said "a new light" he WASN'T talking about the curious flickering lightbulb in the kitchen. "You didn't mean it," Duck said. "But you do have a duck of a lot of privilege!" As a rich duck, explained Duck, one may think one can just take things, and thence one hath a problem.
Alas, he was right! It may not be my fault that I inherited a blessed amount of extremely dicey wealth, but it is my fault if I let that wealth corrupt me. Now, however, marvelous duck that I am, I have solved the issue! Whenever I buy myself something delightful, like a pair of luxurious slippers or a marvelous Sunday top hat, I now buy one for someone else as well. In fact, to make up for the whole "stealing Duck's bathrobe" incident, I donated 100 top hats to a local duck charity that offers help to senior ducks. And that felt absolutely marvelous. It made one quite giddy!
I suppose giving to others is a form of self-love, because who are we, my feathered friends, if not responsible and overly wealthy ducks? It turns out that it pays other dividends too. For example, I have now witnessed seventy five senior ducks paddling past on the pond, wearing top hats to keep the cold out. Can you imagine? What a majestic scene!
Yours in marvelousness,