Ducks and Chucks,
Yours truly is irritated from beak-to-flippers! Why? Because Star told me just this morning that when they originally bought me from Amazon, I was classified as some kind of baby-toy. [I have apologized for this mistake. However, as I keep reminding Duck, my actual phrase was "kids' toy" not "baby-toy"—Star]. How the duck could this be? I am NOT a baby-toy. [As you can see, "baby-toy" kind of stuck—Star.] I am a duck and a stuffed animal. So why would Amazon class me this way? As I said to the human on the Amazon Sellers helpline, I have nothing to do with babies.
Here's the proof that I am NOT a baby toy:
Can baby-toys run pond meetings and also look ducking professional?
Not only do I run weekly pond meetings, letting the waterfowl know how well they've been paddling, but I also check every bird's beak-holes to make sure they've put in their anti-pondemic beak filters. I do all this while wearing a VERY PROFESSIONAL SUIT. Now, it may not be a Ralph Lauren, but it's still extremely smart. Ask yourself if this is the kind of duck you'd dangle in front of a two year-old! I'd probably just start talking about the number of per-meter paddles it takes to economically scale the pond. And what use is that to a baby?
Look at my eyes! They're a total safety hazard!
Honestly, if a baby swallowed one of these, I'd have to jump right out of my feathers and do the Heimlich Maneuver.
Yes, my feathers are wipe-downable and snuggly, but. . .
. . . All ducks' feathers are wipe-downable and snuggly, which naturally lends itself to baby-cuddles and vomit clean-up! But I could just as easily have been crafted to keep my partner, Peacock Riley, and my human, Star, warm and comforted. As I said to my CEO Goose Luce just the other day, "There are certain beings I'm prepared to snuggle—which is why I'm saying no to the role of Chief Snuggle Officer."
Goose Luce understood. She's a good boss.
That said, she did need a snuggle after I turned down the role.
If I was crafted for babies, I wouldn't be ducking terrified of them!
As things stand, I am ducking scared of babies. It's probably just because I've never met a baby, but even so, if I'd been created for these super-small people, you'd think I'd have some genetic propensity for climbing into their laps and letting them waggle my flippers.
I actually have a recurring nightmare about a baby. In it, a gigantic baby in a balaclava helmet is playing with the ACTUAL Eiffel Tower. I happen to be stuck on top of said tower—and I'm not good with heights. The baby is shaking me as if I'm a rattle, and keeps putting my head in their mouth. "I'm a duck!" I keep shrieking. "I'm a plushie! I'm a queer bird! But what I'm not is edible!"
[Given his current stress levels, I have decided not to tell Duck that many people roast his kind and serve them up with mash. —Star]
Finally, you are who you say you are, duck-dammit.
It's simple really. You are who you say you are. No ducking debate—it's fact. No one else knows you like you do.
[Abso-ducking-lutely. I do so love this duck.]
Hope you're doing well, ducks and chucks. We think of you often, during what continues to be a ducking strange time. Flippers up! (But it's also okay if your flippers are kind of down. Duck only knows, mine get that way, too.)