The Human Chair!

 

Best Japanese Metal band out there.  Best Japanese dead bassist, too.      

One of my all-time favorite metal bands is Human Chair, aka Ningen Isu. These guys can play.

OH GOD I HATE WHEN SHE DOES THESE MUSIC POSTS I NEVER LOOK AT THE VIDEOS ANYWAY 

Now that we've gotten that out of the way. 

Ningen Isu want to spend the rest of their lives licking the toes of James Hetfield. Listen to 'Enter Sandman' and then listen to these guys (which you won't) and tell me I'm wrong. 

The very, very best thing about this video that you'll watch maybe three seconds of?

THE SUBTITLES. Oh please, do yourselves the favor of turning on those subtitles. It is DELICIOUS.

https://youtu.be/CbI79e5iZKs

There it is. Copy and paste. Apparently, this content is way too radical to embed.  

Now I know that was painful for you.  Awesome-music-denial usually turns around and bites the denier, making their lives just that bit more empty and wretched, and that's the cross you've chosen to bear.  Just thank God I didn't post this:

It really wasn't made by Ed Gein. Ew. It was made by an Aussie special effects artist named Kayla Arena working with Butterfly FX Studios.  Don't enlarge it.   

______________________

This afternoon we were visited by the Whatcom County Sheriff's office!  Three armored cars, a firetruck, a huge drone flying overhead, and cops in full riot gear carrying flash-bangs, tac gear, and oh yeah, fuckin' assault rifles. Right out here in our parking lot.  One cop has been shouting 'We have a warrant for your arrest, *full name, full address* come out with your hands up and surrender' through a bullhorn for 45 minutes. 

I am given to understand this is standard operating procedure here in Bellingham, no matter where you live. Bellingham has grown up. Damn shame.

_______________________________ 

In other apartment news, our upstairsie has been pretty quiet since we called the police on her boyfriend some months past.  He tried to kill her, and we thought 'That's kind of drastic' so we dimed the fucker, and there was peace in the valley. Little birds tweeting. Nice.

Until recently.

Yes, she's found a new boyfriend. He sounds like a winner too.  A loud, clomping, hee-hawing son of Kentucky that I've named Shithouse Rhymes, because he likes to stand in the bathroom upstairs every morning and RAP. 

Downstairs it's Hendrix. Upstairs, it's 8 Mile.      

He is absolutely admiring himself in the mirror as he does this. I know he is.  He has the place to himself, and he's getting his Mathers on.  He, sadly, is no B Rabbit.  

Dude sounds ah say the dude sounds jest like Foghorn Leghorn. What a world, y'all. 

One Needs A Touch Of Color

It was time.  Don't you agree?

It was also time to start being a good blog buddy and actually visit y'all on a regular basis.  It's difficult to get back into the social-presence habit, but I am a reformed Toad. Rest assured that from this day forward, I may not comment, but I'll be out here judging you.  Also, some of you people need to post more often. (And this is me after a sloth-hiatus.)

I am here today to introduce you to what I do when I'm not out shoplifting:

I embroider.  Yup.

Mainly turtles lately.  This is a swanky turtle.

This is a Van Gogh turtle.

Plain and fancy turtles.

Bumpy turtles and smooth turtles.

Ocean turtles that are not regularly blue. 

And here is what everybody asks - 'What does the other side look like?'  It looks like this. Here ya go.

Each one of them is about 6 inches by six inches, or 152.4 mm by 152.4mm. Lo these many years gone by, one of my Bloggy friends had a nasty hole. I was able to cover it with Style. If you have a nasty hole you'd like me to cover, I'd be more than pleased. Doesn't have to be a turtle.

 

You'd be surprised what I can do. 

Seriously. 

Send a picture.

"So why are you embroidering 30005789347 turtles all of a sudden? you may ask.  It's because my Biker wants a turtle quilt, and these are the appliques that are going to go on the topper.  

Yes, I also quilt!  Well, I make 'tufted coverlets' if you're one of those super picky types. Some have pieced tops, and some have embroidered tops. I don't have time to go dicking around with a quilting frame or to go paying a shop to put it through a longarm.  Quilts are about saving money!  I'll be dipped before I pay between $100.00 - $350.00 for that B.S. Take my tufting and like it, peasant. 

Yes, I am a fabric queen. Yes, I have a stash. Yes, I have a 1940 Kenmore sewing machine with all the bells and whistles. I am also a rabid fan of 

!!!BERNADETTE BANNER!!!

Current Projects — Bernadette Banner     

It's been years since I made an item of clothing from scratch.  What I do is upcycle stuff I find at garage sales - but it's been years since I did that too, because I discovered character t's online. You do the math.     

-A t-shirt is comfy, stretchy, and has no buttons to go zanging off the walls every time I reach for something.  

-You can print an H. R. Giger picture on a t-shirt. Try that with a button-up. It'll suck. 

-They deliver t-shirts in the mail.  This means no trips out into public. 👍👍👍 

How many of you out there sew your own?

Aventuras en la Cocina a Go Go!

 NO I have not forgotten you, my darlings!  No no no.  I was just being lazy. Pure sloth on my part.

So slothful that my magnificent slothful zeal must be caged.   

During this period of inactivity I actually accomplished a lot.  Most of it was boring. I'll spare you that, and instead recount the thrilling tale of How The Biker and FirstNations discovered a meal so holy, so tasty, so satisfying and so filled with cholesterol and saturated fats that even the plaque forming in your bloodstream will feel shame. This manna from Heaven is known as

Birria.       

Our story:  One of the Bikers buddies at work was walking around carrying a styro clamshell which was giving forth an aroma born in Paradise. Naturally The Biker followed this guy around the plant until he trapped him in a filthy restroom stall, kicked him unconscious, swiped his lunch and took a piss on him.

NO!  Ha ha!  That is not what happened at all. Things like that never happen here.  

 WTF UK.  

(Taken from an article in the Mirror. A more sober, reliable source you will not find.) Also, what the fuck's up with the radioactive eyeball dog? WHAT ARE YOU PEOPLE DOING OVER THERE?    

Our local Birriaria is in the middle of a tiny little strip mall.  As soon as we walked in we knew we were in for a treat. How?  Because right next to the cash register was a cooler full of Mexican Coca-Cola. (Just - just, dammit, calm down! I'll tell you about Mexican Coca Cola in a sec.  Geeze.)  We get our birria plates. Our meals look...like they've been made by...people with a different food aesthetic. -fine. Not delicious. 

Oh, but they are delicious. 

It's twoo.

Oh, it is! It is!!!!!   

This is how it shapes up. Birria is made in an enormous, enormous pot full of spices, other stuff, lard and Beef. Around the sides of this pot hang colanders full of chicken, turkey, maybe goat, and pork, all simmering in the same consomme, as it's called on the menu (they sell it by the cup!!!!!) They add a little water, a little this and that if the pot gets low, and it just rolls on, getting more complex and tastier.

There isn't a picture in all the webiverse that reveals the true ugliness of birria, so brace yourselves. 

If you order birria cheese tacos, what you will receive looks like a plate full ancient Egyptian rehydrated pussy.

Oh how I wish I were exaggerating.   

 

It just does.  And the next paragraph is just as unnecessarily descriptive.

They grab a plastic platter and lay a piece of checkered paper on it. 

They then lay down one flour tortilla and put cheese on it. Queso Oaxaca, I think. Maybe plain Monterrey Jack.  

Then they lay another flour tortilla on top of that. 

Next they fish around in the truly vast, soul-swallowing vat of birria and pick out the protein of your choice, which has simmered to rags, and splorch it on top. A flood of Consomme mixes with orange - colored oil on the platter. 

They fold this pile of tortillas, cheese and meat in half and then dip it in their deep fryer for a three count.  

It comes out of the deep fryer the color of a flaming sunset (Let's say Pantone Orange 021 HC) and goes straight onto your flooded, paper-lined platter, with a little more of the protein of your choice on top of it all, then a ladle full of the consomme, PLUS six deep-fried serrano peppers in the skin.  

Now as someone who knows their ancient Egyptian dehydrated pussy, I can tell you a lot of things you'd expect from me after a lead in like that.   The thing is, you have to trust me. Birria is ugly, it is bad for you, and it is the most delicious meal The Biker and I have eaten IN. FREAKING. DECADES. 

Oh oh oh crap, yes, the Mexican Coca-Cola. OK.  

Here in the U.S., Coke is made by making Hello Kitty pee in a bottle.  And as tempting as that sounds, it isn't anything compared to the delicious, delicious flavor of Mexican Coca-Cola, which is made using the original recipe just as God intended!  

See the paper label?  That's what Mexican Coke has to have slapped on it in order to be sold in the U.S.A. Basically, they're shipping the original, delicious Coke in from a foreign country back to the country where the original recipe was invented - the same country which now drinks (in blind, market-generated ignorance) a hell-substance made of maltose, corn syrup, and LIES.   

Living on the West Coast, I've known about Mexican Coke since the Eighties, but I guess for a large part of the world this is voodoo magic, so let me be the one to clue you in. Coke used to be made using unbleached cane sugar - and that's it, just unbleached cane sugar - as a sweetener.  It's the Coke we all drank when we were kids.*  Those of you living in climes foreign might find Original Recipe Coke being sold as 'Kosher for Passover' Coke. Either way, BUY IT.  The difference in flavor is unbelievable and you will send me $9000.00 in gratitude for bringing light to your beveragey darkness. 

Now go forth and do whatever it is you do.

_____________________________

*At least everybody but Miss Scarlet, who is only 16. 

Thunder Quill 7 Chuck

 Having once again proven that I can, in fact, offend most of the people most of the time, I shall now move on to the subject of sheep pussy.

-HA I so got you. I did. You know I did. Don't lie.  I totally got you with the sheep pussy thing. 

But speaking of horse condoms, let me express my utter delight at having received a statement from the Social Security Administration telling me all about the pittance I'll be getting after I 'retire'.  Oh, and my Medicare 'benefits', although how anything that amounts to a proffered Band-aide and a glass of tepid water can be called a benefit escapes me. Perhaps because it's better than a peck in the head with a sharp rock?  I say it's relative.  You can get a peck in the head with a sharp rock for free. To get Social Security you have to make a bunch of appointments and fill out things online and sort through reams of mailings. For months.  And Medicare?  Enrollment after enrollment after negotiation after application after turndown after enrollment.

As far as the cash amount goes - let me put it this way.  I just bought four pairs of slacks and four character t's, the combined cost of which adds up to 1/3 of what I'll be getting from Social Security. So if I were single? That means every month for the rest of my life, I could buy twelve pairs of slacks and twelve character t's.  And get a Band-Aide and a glass of tepid water. 

I didn't expect anything different, to be honest.

As things stand, and in the best case, we'll spend our waning days in North Carolina in a tiny home, under the scrutiny of a family member I often find disagreeable. I am not looking forward to the move, or the location, but as I drive past the homeless encampment just down the street from me, I realize things could easily be a hell of a lot worse.  Hopefully by the time it comes to moving South, they'll be letting me have the good drugs.  Hell, if I can still drive, I'll be able to buy them without a prescription, so never mind. I'm good.  

-Where am I going, disagreeable family member?  Oh, I just thought I'd, um, hang out in the parking lot in front of WalMart for a few hours. Need a pair of slacks?  How about a character T?

_______

 

Shake Hands With Beef

Oh, we're gonna go places today, kids.

Yes we are. Heh.  

I'm going to bring the Jimmy Castor Bunch up on stage to lead us in.

"We're gonna go back. 

Way back. 

Back into time. 

When the only people that existed were troglodytes. 

Cave men.

Cave women.

Neandertal.

TROGLODYTES.

Let's take the average cave man at home, listening to his stereo.  

Sometimes he'd get up, start to move. Try to do his thing."

...and sometimes his thing wasn't up to the task, so he went for his cave dildo.    

Look at them. 

Cavewomen! HA.  What we have here are butt toys, snatch toys, and one - damn, #4 - freak of nature.  (And if any of you know Mr. Mago, please let him know about his incredible cultural heritage, would you?)

A couple of these were made to resemble animal dicks.

One of these may have been used on an animal. 

Yes.

To induce oestrus.

 

This is something that still happens. Today. In agriculture. Real, non-fetishy agriculture.  And the most likely animal that a cave dick of this size would have been used on would have been a pig, otherwise known as cheap quality protein, the thriftiest animal going.  The idea is, pig goes into heat on your schedule, pig gets boyfriend, pig has more pigs, we all have ham. Or tiny pig on rye. It's Germany. 

This is a case of having on hand the right tool for the right job. There's the ass cave dick, the snatch cave dick, and the Dammit Irene I can't get this sow going by myself, hand me a #10 cave dick. 

Yes, I've just alluded to man-on-pig action.  Hello, Vase de Noces fans! 

___________________________

  

CAVE SHAMANS   

I want you to ask yourself what all those 'shaman' cave paintings were about. (You:  Damn I wonder what all those shaman cave paintings were about. What an oddly specific, random thought.)  

They call those figures shamans, anyway; a picture of some guy with an animal head and a boner who hangs around with animals. 

This guy is dressed as a pinecone in opera gloves. Bison love that shit.

For years these scenes were thought to depict hunting and magic and animal spirits, the idea being, nobody reads, so you draw a man - animal hybrid. I suppose they pointed to it and said 'This animal headed thing is the animal's spirit, or perhaps it's god. Either way, let's pray for it to die.'   

Now you have to ask "Why a dude?  Why not a woman?" I'll wait.

Could be because the immediate vicinity of the painting was a sacred, male-only cult space, like (blogger of your choice here)'s ass.

Could be that the female 'shamans' were washed off by way-too-Christian explorers. "Oh la," they said, because they talked like that. "That is unspeakably bestial, Satanic, and obscene. Get a bucket and a brush."  

But it could very well be that some of the depictions are about very early attempts at domesticating animals, like a how-to visual aid. Bear with me. Not a pun.

Cave people were smart. That much is fact. And they necessarily noticed very specific things about animal behavior because they needed groceries. 

 Now, key to domesticating animals is 1. Meticulous observation 2. Taking charge of their reproductive cycle, and 3. Habituating them to a human presence. The 'Shaman', then, could just be a visual mnemonic for 'Kids, be like Mr. Proto-Herdsperson here. PH is out there like a badass with his flock, knows animal habits like he was born one of them, and it is absolutely imperative that those gals get the D when it's convenient for you.'  

But. 

It could just as easily mean "Dress up in an animal costume, and then book ass into the middle of a herd of wooly rhinos with an erection."  I'll elucidate after a line of asterixis.

*********  

Now.  What if, and this is a big, big if, so hang on and we'll all get through this together... domestication didn't start out as domestication at all? 

You have to wonder how someone even came up with the idea. Animals RUN AWAY.  They fight back, they're stronger than you, and they're present in their teeming millions in 50,000 - 10,000 B.C.  Domestication is a helluva cognitive leap.

 

What if all this 'I have an animal head and I like to hang out - forgive me- with the herd' art was depicting an initiation task?   Say, one just like the one a couple of well-known motorcycle gangs still put their prospects through?  

"Thats why they call me...Oosik." 

-OK it means a walrus' penis bone. It's called an Oosik. He banged a walrus, OK? Good God this is funny on so many different levels. 

This means that what we thought was "Shaman in the Herd" ochre on stone, artist unknown, c. 50,000 B.C. 

is actually "Initiate In A Stupid Hat About to Fuck a Camel" ochre on stone, artist unknown, c. 50,000 B.C.

You've seen James Herriot up to his shoulder in a cow, right?  He's taking advantage of one of the dirty little secrets of agriculture:  Animals...don't necessarily object. To certain treatment. Ahem. OK like I don't mean chickens, I mean, you know, real animals. Horses and cows and stuff.  You know, animals. 

This really is one theory of how hunters became herders. If you want to verify it, you'll have to dig really really deep and learn anthropological things you really, really wish you hadn't, because then as now, what happens in the herd tends to stay in Enumclaw.  (I dare you to look that up.)

   

So here we are.

It's Rush Week for our man Blarg. He's got his animal head costume. He's out on the mountainside with his crew and they're all like 'Go on! Get out there! Shh! You shhh.' and stuff.   He sneaks up to a filly, casts his bolo, and...that happens.  Yippie ki yo ki yay, Blarg is now a full member of the Concatenated Order of Hoo Hoo. Blarg and Co. go off and party. Meanwhile, the horse, with the scent of Blargs manliness lingering in her nostrils, follows Blarg downmountain for some more of that sweet sweet Neanderdick. And then it's simply a case of 'Can Blarg keep horse? It friendly! Blarg certain.' 

Yes indeed. This very argument has been made. Yes it has. By people with degrees. 

From German universities. 

Vast Pork Crater 114 year!

 I'm going to try to figure out how to re-vamp my comments lounge so that I can reply to posts individually. As I recall, JON had the lowdown on how that happens.  You'll have to repeat that, sonny. Grandma didn't catch it the first time. 

Yeah, I'm all old and shit.  I want to complain about my knees and how I get called 'Grandma' by every little kid in creation lately, but to be honest, I really like being old.  A lot of the bullshit has just melted away. It's amazing to look back and see how the simple act of growing a pair of tits played havoc with my brain chemistry for so many years. Turns out that having had Graves Disease is what complicated menopause and made it last nearly ten freaking years. I would have liked to have known that beforehand. But it's all over now, and I am free of the whole sorry, terrible, adult thing at laaaaaaast!

So the tide is finally out, and what's left stinking on the beach is a minor learning disability and some ADHD artifacts. I only take three medications now, and only one of them is related to me being nuts, and that's -you know what, skip the details, it's 5 mg. Prozac.  That's IT.  That's it. Down from what...seven different prescriptions? Nine is closer. Yeah. Seven or nine.

Yes I went there.  I took the easy path. We all smelled this coming.  

So. I did an old person thing the other day.  

Now, I don't have a Karen personality.  I do not throw tantrums in public, I don't take meth, I don't stomp my gogo boots and shout for the manager and scream-cry.   But yeah, I was using the self-checkout at Fred Meyers and it borked because I was buying a fifth of Bushmills and had to wait for a 'customer service' person come look at my picture ID to see if I was old enough. Take a moment to consider the irony. 

Five minutes later, the customer service person, who had been standing ten feet away from me jacking her jaws, came over. Then I had to wait for ten more minutes while the machine adamantly refused to accept her employee code six times in a row.  Then the rotating red assistance light on the check stand went on, and all the clerks rolled their eyes and sighed. At that point I said, conversationally, 'You know what, I'm done. Fuck this place. ' It was a conversational 'fuck' not an abusive 'fuck'. Anyway, yeah. Then I just walked out.

I surprised myself.  It came so naturally.  I didn't feel an ounce of guilt.  I was not mad. I was just done, and out I walked.  Old me does not care that three teenagers were inconvenienced by having to put my Bushmills on the re-stock shelf. Note also that Old me would have kept her fat yap shut if there'd been anybody behind her in line. Ahoy! I shouted, but there be no answer a-commin, ner a sail t' be seen! 'ARRR!' sez I! Then by Davey Jones and all the divils in burnin' Hell....

Release the Kraken!    

'And down ye go and be gone wi' ye, for I'll ne'er shop t' aisles o' yer  grocery store agin!'  Or whatever a person who had a kraken to release would say in my situation.  

OK I just went and looked at this thing in Images (duh) and found this kraken picture:

You know what that thing looks like?  Cloverfield.  Serious as a heart attack. 

Cloverfield is excellent!  Even the sea lice were excellent! And how many movies can you say that about? Not too many, Spanky.  

They could completely be from the same genus, just different species.  Although Cloverfield (spoiler alert!) is extraterrestrial.  After extensive research I have concluded that Cloverfields come from meteorites.  

The first ones landed here on that meteorite that wiped out all the tracheotosaurs and had been running around on the sea floor eating dead Aztecs (because of the cenotes!  That meteorite split into pieces and went all birdshot on the Yucatan Peninsula and drilled it full of holes that filled up with water. What do you do with something like that in your Aztec back yard? You throw other Aztecs into it. The Cloverfields smell that happening and dig passages from the ocean to the cenotes and eat the dead Aztecs. Keep up.)  Then one branch split off and migrated to Greece, where it mutated into Krakens.  Or a single Kraken.  And then it ate Argo.

The Argo corn starch lady is a super foxy corn lady.  

_____________________________________

There is nothing to compare to being able to follow one's interests in solitude.  I love my solitude.  This is another thing I've discovered since I turned old all of a sudden. Solitude is bliss!   

When I think of all the quality time I lost due to feeling pressured to go out into public and interact, I want to weep.  I spent way too much time worrying 'Am I social enough?' and not nearly enough time doing interesting things like undertaking extensive research in order to reveal how a kraken/the kraken is descended from Cloverfields. We didn't even know about Cloverfields until 2008. Fun fact!

I also just read The Vision of Tundale which is a super trippy piece of writing that came along, quite conveniently, about the same time that the Church invented Purgatory. This caused the French to build the Cathedral of Autun for lepers, who have leprosy because they are, for real, God said, suffering the actual torments of Purgatory right here on Earth in front of your face. Then Dante, not to be outdone by people with chunks falling off of them, got on the Purgatory bandwagon and whipped out The Inferno, The Purgatorio (see?) and the Paradisio.  Finally it was 1452 and DaVinci said this is really getting stupid. He cut up a bunch of dead people, drew pictures of it, and then he moved to France and died.  This is why France sucks. 

____________________________________

Inexplicable DeVice just had a birthday!  And how lucky is he, who is a them, to be able to celebrate numerous birthdays simultaneously?  I gave them a birthday gift and everything. The Mistress even threatened him with a cake!  Did YOU?  Go threaten IDV with a cake. Go do it now.

Welcomed back into the fold (since the introduction of motorized sheep, this phrase now carries more of a...medical...image than it should) is former Miss Alternative Ireland (she isn't even Irish!  Seriously!) roller derby queen and newish bride NOSHIT SHERLOCK!  AKA Sophie!  The very first soul I ever claimed, back when this was Paul and not Steve. She even has an icky nephew!

  -maaaaaan, going for the easy shot once again.  I am ashamed. Still, you keep looking at this picture, and...it just...  

Wow this is enough excitement for me. I'm going to go rest. Go play your Beatles records backwards. Or muse upon the words of Beck '...through the garbage pail sky, like a giant dildo crushing the sun.'  It's a good song.  I mean do whatever.

Forensic Jelly Tornado Eleven !

Now, I like dogs.  I do. 

But here's my question:  Who decided that it was OK to bring your dog everywhere?  When did that become just fine? What happened to commercial public health and hygiene certificates? Businesses were required to have one and display it. One of the clauses was 'absolutely no animals on the premises.' You could get your business license pulled. One cockroach is all it took, let alone someone's Standard damn Poodle.

Bring on the service dogs. They're heroes.   No, what I don't like is when you're sipping your oatmeal stout and someone's Bernese Mountain Dog lifts his leg against the corner of the bar and nobody acts like it's a problem. I don't like going into a grocery store all full of dogs sniffing each other's butts and dragging around loaves of bread, and I don't like wondering 'Is this brown smear on the floor human or canine?'

Bellingham is the official capitol of 'Love Me, Love My Dog Using Your Premises Like A Toilet.'  Dear visitor, do NOT under any circumstances, buy or touch anything in this town that is stocked below knee level, in any store. Any. Store.  I mean it. This goes particularly for the Food Co-Op and Trader Joes.  

What the fuck is it about Trader Joes? I mean, look what I found:

Y'alluns over in the UK might remember this one. Or not. Maybe you were all high and shit.   Moment dog tied to trolley urinates at Trader Joe's | Metro News  

 Clearly it's the dog owners who are the problem. Pity it's against the law to smash their heads against the curb, because this is a problem that demands a human head be smashed against a curb. At first I was going to say 'rub their noses in what their dog did' but you risk offending the dog. 

Thing is, here in Bellingham, it's not just dogs. It's also miniature horses; I kid thee not, cats, medium sized pigs, rats, goats, ferrets, chickens, snakes, rabbits, possums, raccoons, parrots, wolves, mice, hamsters, coyotes, guinea pigs and lizards.  

This is not cool. I am not impressed. I do not want to stand behind you in the checkout line and watch your obese shoulder rat take a shit down your back.  There is no reason in the world that you need to bring a goddamn lizard into Discount Tires. It's not an emotional support animal. It's a fucking lizard. Nobody thinks you're cool. They think you're the type of person who identifies as wolf-kin, has a hundred stickers on their car, and is too chickenshit to get a tattoo.

 Yeah I chose the California plate on purpose. I'm from the PNW. We're required by law to rank on the Golden State. 

And another thing. Ducks do not belong in a credit union, and ducks do not need shoes. Yet duck shoes are a thing.   And naturally, you can buy them at WalMart. FAIOIN Waterproof Lightweight Pet Duck Shoes Casual Walking Booties Footwear for Small Ducks Gooses Outdoor Duck Booties - Walmart.com

Duck shoes. Shoes for a duck. With sizes. For duck feet.  Plus the duck was wearing a duck diaper. It was a pink duck diaper with flowers on it. This is Petit Trianon - level dorkage and I will not stand for it. This is exactly the kind of person who's going to claim 'This is my emotional support animal!" and they're going to need all it's duckly powers of support if I catch them in my credit union again because I plan to unleash the gospel of the Elder Gods on that B.S.

This is my emotional support animal. Now make your case, duck-shoer.