The duck is on a roller coaster. I cringe.
The duck is in a crowd at pro wrestling. I shudder.
You have the duck on an airplane. I suppress my gag reflex.
Time passes. The commercials don’t go away. They are on my television with increased frequency.
I break things.
I am on my 7th television.
I need help.
Here’s a splintered broom handle for the collective ass of the ad agency for coming up with this crap. Here’s forty-seven paper cuts, washed in lemon juice for Gilbert Gottfried for providing the voice. Here’s a giant kick in the crotch for everyone who has enjoyed these commercials, and voiced their opinion, thus leading AFLAC to make more of these 30 second torture devices.
I want to kill this duck. I WILL kill this duck. I will buy a smell-hound for the sole purposes of stalking the AFLAC building. I will buy Ginsu knives, and keep them in the packaging until I catch this raspy, discordant little bastard. I want to use his feathers to wipe my ass, use his beak for an ashtray, and turn his legs into some sort of modern art collage involving thumbtacks, photos of Jim J. Bullock, and half eaten life savers. I want to take his remaining body, cover it in a lovely lemon herb glaze, cook it for dinner, and send it to the home of AFLAC’s director of marketing over the holidays. But first I’d fill it with laxatives, dirty kitty litter and methamphetamines.
His days are numbered. :mad: