So now there are like, what, 8 geese?
And dead duck tours? When do we get to hear that story?!
Eleven, actually. (I feel kind of sorry for whichever one is the odd goose out.)
Many of the readers of this blog have already had the privelege of hearing the dead duck story, so I think I'll wait and fill you in on our big road trip. (Although really, there's not much more to the story than what I've exposited here, other than to explain the circumstances, which...yeah, probably need explaining.)
I'd like to hear the dead duck story. I have no idea what the hell is goin' on with that.
Broadway Village is filled with many Canadian Geese, and although they don't seem to be particularly afraid of people getting within five yards of them, that's about as close as they'll allow before running the other way. We have more of them than I can count, but none have been actively hostile towards me, even if they do sometimes like to park their asses in my damn parking space.
While Holly and I were in Myrtle Beach, we encounter a breed of duck/goose/waterfowl that we had never seen before. These were birds that had no feathers and no skin on their faces, but instead appeared to have faces made purely of blood-red musculature of which every detail was frighteningly clear to the viewer. These are the waterfowl that swim in the molten lakes of hell, and you would do well not to cross them.
Re: your last post -- you should move to St. Louis. We could gush over Joshua Jackson together and write bad haiku.
But there are still many, many lame guys here. I think that's a Fact of Life in any city, sadly.
You could also teach me how to spell my name correctly, Ann Sullivan-style.
While many of us have experience the, er, pleasure of the dead duck story, I feel as if you should not disappoint your loyal readers and regale them with the tale.
It gives quite an insight into your childhood pasttimes, Cla-are. By the way, what's your favorite color? Is it pank?
Just kidding. You know I love ya! 
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