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My Pondweed Fritters Aren't Yours, Mallard Jones

Dear Mallard,

Now, I know we're best frenemies, but when I leave a trio of delicious, deep-fried pondweed fritters on a plate on the sideboard for my dinner, and then get home from work to find the whole plate gone, I'm more than a little ducking upset. Especially when there's a sticky note there that says, "Thanks so much, old chap, for those ducklicious pondweed fritters! They really were the most scruptious feast ever! Sincerely, Mallard Jones."

So yes, this duck was seething under his feathers. But then my partner Peacock Riley suggested that if our friendship says you can do this, then so can I! So I paddled my way over to Mallard Mansion, used my spare key to let myself into the cellar, and snaffled some pondweed champagne and a very taste chunk of aged gouda.

Best. Dinner. Ever.

And I'm not even angry anymore. (Although I do have a touch of gas.)

Loves ya,



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