Last night I went to Bunco. Lots of fun, mostly gossiping and gnashing, with a bit of dice thrown in for purpose.

At the end of the evening I was sharing the sad story of watching the male duck mourn his mate. We all did the ooo, how sad, then one of the girls said, maybe he was a crabby duck and she ran out in front of the car since ducks can’t divorce. Someone else decided he was yelling at her for getting hit because she insisted she could cross the road and he wanted to wait for traffic.  Another countered with: maybe he was abusive, then asked if there was a webbed print on her ducky derriere.

It went from bad to worse as the fabulous peach sangria kicked in and it seemed like that duck tale got better as we went.

Was it murder, accident or suicide? We may never know – but apparently even a squashed duck can be great fodder for stories. Odd, funny and mysterious. What do you think happened?????

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