Weekend hijinks with A.M. Duck

What time is it? June?

What? It's 1:30 on Tuesday? And I'm at work? Is that why people have been yelling at me all day? Quackin' quack, how the time do fly when you're drunk, zonked out on goofballs and engaging in interspecies sexual congress that exists in sort of a gray area, legally.

That, my friends, is how I spent this past weekend. I kicked off the weekend on Ferrdayy night by dumping Lori Petty, my long-term live-in girlfriend for three whole days now. Why'd I send Lori to Dumpsville, population Tank Girl? Because I realized I was putting the Duck Diggler to frickin' Tank Girl, freelz 'n shit. Yo, did you see that flick? Me neither. Schnapps! Peppermint schnapps!

With Lori "Tom" Petty out of the picture, I set about procuring all the items on my shopping list. Item #1 was 190-proof corn likker, which I make right at home in the bathtub, and I'd just whipped up a new batch. "Always be prepared with a bathtub full of moonshine" is the A.M. Duck motto, so #1 was taken care of. Item #2 was the aforementioned goofballs, so I just popped up to the corner, cut Ray-Ray the dealer's Achilles tendon, and took his inventory while he was writhing on the ground in pain. It's gonna be a good while before he can try to exact revenge, but I'd better be good and ready. He didn't get a look at me, but I did let out a couple of "Wreck-O-Nize!"s as I was flapping away, and everybody knows that's my quackin' trademark. Wreck-O-Nize!

With the likker and goofballs already doing their work on my liver, bloodstream and nervous system, it was time to find item #3: the fine wimmens. And, as everyone knows, the best place to find intelligent, sophisticated, goal-oriented women is the Sunset Strip. Plus, most of them wear their pants low enough to see their thongs, and that's totally hot.

I started off the night by hitting Dublin's, and by "hitting Dublin's" I mean I hit Dublin's with my car--yo, in case you forgot, I'm a quackin' duck, and neither wings nor webbed feet are too good for operating a motor vehicle, especially when said duck is zonked out on moonshine and goofballs. But I did manage to run over a couple of Seakron clones, so that was cool, and I booked it to Miyagi's before the fuzz showed up. My Yakuza pals slipped me into the secret back room, and I spent the next hour eating spicy tuna hand roll off the ass of Lauren Graham, TV's favorite (or second-favorite, depending on how you look at it) Gilmore Girl. She was all into my shit and wanted to come back to Stately Duck Manor, but I was all like...no, wait, I told her to come by because I was totally into her shit too. Tank Girl's got nothing on Lorelai Gilmore. Totally doubleplusgyllicious, freelz. Wreck-O-Nize!

On the way home I think I killed a hobo, but I'm not 100% sure on that. Maybe it was just a speed bump.

On Saturday I did laundry. Hey, even an Angry Magic Duck wants his clothes to smell springtime fresh.

I spent Sunday cradled in Lorelai Gilmore's arms, sobbing uncontrollably as I came down from goofball-induced high and Lori Petty lobbed bleach-filled water balloons over the front gate of Stately Duck Manor, apparently not taking the breakup well. Tank Girl's persistent, I'll give her that.