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The Egyptians engineered the Pyramids. The Romans engineered the Coliseum. Somebody or other apparently engineered Stonehenge.
And every Spring my buddy Tom and I engineer The Dock.
For Tom and I The Dock represents a sacred ritual - kind of like sacrificing a goat, only with a little less bloodshed, and you don't get any goat burgers when you're done. It's a ritual we like to perform just as early in the season as we possibly can.
Now any rational individual - and by "rational individual" I mean "my wife" - would question the logic in putting on a pair of waders and spending hours splashing around with dock parts in 40 degree water, when we could simply wait a few weeks until the water gets warm.
Huh!
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This afternoon my friend and I dropped into a friendly neighborhood tavern to grab some lunch and to watch the Detroit Red Wings CRUSH the Colorado Avalanche in the second round of the NHL playoffs. Now, if you happen to be a Colorado Avalanche fan, you should know that I deeply respect the Colorado team, and that I also respect you as a fellow sport fan. Cheer up - I'm sure your guys will do better next time out.
Just kidding. The Avs suck.
Anyway, I didn't really want to talk about the hockey game. I want to talk about something else in that tavern, something you can count on finding in lots of bars, along with oceans of alcohol-fueled despair and happy hour hot wing specials. I want to talk about people who smoke cigarettes.
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Most of you know that we live on the shores of Whitmore Lake, Michigan – “Where the women are strong, the men are good looking, and the children spend every winter asking why the heck we still live in Michigan.”
What you may not be aware of is that every Spring we also provide the headquarters for a sort of singles club. For ducks.
We call it Club Mallard. Sure, we also get a fair number of geese, and the occasional swan, but our clientèle is mostly ducks. They come in about this time each year, hoping to find that “perfect someone” to spend… well, at least the next couple of weeks with.
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