Yeah. Yeah. I know. So what's the deal with a fucking plastic duck? Well, listen up and I'll give you the straight shit. This all started when I was younger, happier duck. I always sat on a shelf in Finnegan's Toys and Gifts at 9th and Yamhill. I was near the store's front window and could watch the people passing by.
Occasionally some kid would peer in at all the lesser toys scattered around the joint, then stare longingly at me. I would hop up and down yelling, "Me! Buy me!" But then they would pass on when their self-centered, bitch mothers grabbed them by the hand and dragged them off down the street to Nordstrom's to look for shit for their own selfish asses.
So what's a duck supposed to do? Right? I sat. I hopped and hoped some nice kid would want me so bad he or she would throw a tantrum until their bitch mother bought me. Unfortunately, that's not what happened. Oh, I got sold, but not to some nice little kid. Oh, no. I got screwed, so to speak.
I can remember the day as if it were yesterday. A sunny July afternoon. The temperature was warm, not a cloud in the sky and a light breeze blowing off the Willamette. And who comes in the shop? Igor the Horrible. Actually, his name is Randy, but I still call him Igor. The name seems to fit. After all. What the hell does a grown man want with a ducky? Well, I found out the answer to that one. Sick fucker.
The guy was short and ugly. He smelled like a garbage man when he reached out to pick me up off my shelf. He pawed me with his grubby hands. He scratched me with his dirty fingernails. I wanted to barf. Then it got worse. He started licking me. I screamed for help.
Juanita, the hideous, Goth sales girl with the pimply-faced boyfriend came to my rescue. "You gonna buy that?"
"Oh, yes. He's perfect for what I have in mind."
Now I am, of course, perfect in every way. But I had to wonder what Igor had in his filthy little mind. With a sense of foreboding, I knew I wasn't perfect for whatever this deviant little bastard had dreamed up.
Anyway, he had me stuffed in a paper bag and took me home. Did I say took me home? Not directly. First he tortured me. He swung the bag over his head, bounced me off a lamp post then threw me in the trunk of a car like I was some cast off piece of shit. I nearly threw up. It was completely obvious to me after one minute of my slavery to Igor that he had no respect for the finer plastic toys of the world.
So, next I was bounced around in the trunk over the worst roads in the Pacific Northwest. I admit I couldn't see anything, being locked in the blackness of his car trunk and all, but I'm sure he ran over boulders the size of Mount St. Helens, pot holes that resembled the great caldera that made up Crater Lake, not to mention his erratic driving. He'd slam on the breaks at every stop sign. Pound the gas peddle when he took off leaving rubber all over the road. He constantly laid on the horn and I could hear him screaming at the other drivers like he was a New York cab driver or something. Igor drove like he should have been committed to a nut house for criminally insane speeders or something.
By some miracle we finally arrived at his home in Raleigh Hills. I have to say, I held some glimmer of hope, thinking maybe Igor had purchased me for a child, even a mini-Igor, but preferably a cute little blond daughter who would play with me, love me and treat me in the gentle, kind way I truly deserve.
"Hi, honey," he called opening the front door of his home.
