I, Anonymous Ride the Ducks? How About FUCK the Ducks.

Steven Weissman

Fuck the Ducks. Fuck your laughing. Fuck your leering. Fuck your happiness. I live on a boat near the public access ramp the Ride the Ducks vehicles use to enter Lake Union. I can stand on my front porch and see five at a time. The guides take their craft mere feet from my front porch. Are those tourists thinking about what an idyllic life has appeared before them? Well, in the great irony of tourism, their presence destroys the very thing they are trying to appreciate. Two years ago, I could take the joke. But their business has expanded so much that it is not EVEN funny. I can hear them coming ALL DAY. Like the ticking of Captain Hook's crocodile, the sound of a Ride the Ducks motor makes me tense, preparing for the extreme voyeurism in which I am an unwilling participant. The people wave at me and honk their duck horns while the guide plays deafening music and casually talks about my dog and my kayak as if we were part of the scenery. Screw all of you. I hope you drown out there.

—Anonymous