Not interested in getting the duck scoop

The most humiliating moments in my life include falling backward

in a chair at a formal dance, realizing during a job interview that I

was wearing one black and one white shoe and every time I’ve spoken

to Newport Beach Assistant City Manager Dave Kiff in the last six

months. Don’t get me wrong, Kiff’s a fine guy. But, you see, pretty

much every conversation I have with him ends with me asking, “Is

there anything going on with the ducks?”

I’m glad I didn’t go to journalism school, because if anyone had

ever filled my head with glamorous images of the life of a

hard-hitting investigative reporter, I would right now be demanding a

full tuition refund and punitive damages. Journalism in the real

world is much less Woodward and Bernstein than it is Donald and

Mickey. Or, at the very least, Fido and Fluffy.

Why are news media so obsessed with anything that barks, meows,

quacks, squeaks or moos, you ask? Is it a supply-side phenomenon,

with editors just assuming that readers can’t get enough literal

fluff? Or is it true that we all stampede to the newsstand each day

demanding to know whether any kitties got stuck in trees in the

previous 24 hours?

Those are questions for the ages, far outside the scope of this

simple column (she wrote, secretly blaming everyone involved for

dumbing down the human race to the point where we consider “American

Idol” entertainment).

All I know for sure is that I am now completely out of duck puns.

My crimes against humor and good taste are preserved for posterity in

the Daily Pilot archives: “Fowl foul, “duck scoop,” “daffy,”

“feathers may fly,” “slip Donald a mickey,” “the squawking is over,”

“lock up your troughs and hide your water” and “a stealth operation

worthy of Saturday morning cartoons” are just some of the literary

abuses I racked up reporting on the situation on the Grand Canal.

Ones that didn’t make it into print include “Operation Pluck It” and

a facetious reference to Kiff as the bloodthirsty King Crispyduck.

For those of you who’ve been on Pluto for most of the 21st

century, an untold amount of labor, resources and newsprint has been

devoted to battling the Grand Canal’s web-footed thugs ever since the

city passed an ordinance to stop mass feeding of ducks. The reasons

are very scientific -- all “water quality this” and “fecal coliform

that.” But in the end (ahem) the problem can be summed up as: Duck

droppings are nas-tay.

The Daily Pilot has been careful not to assign or even imply blame

while reporting on this matter 11 -- count ‘em 11 -- times. But I can

no longer hold my peace. I blame Donald. Had he the decency to wear

pants, or at least a diaper, during his decades in the public eye,

perhaps he could have set a better example for younger generations.

But for the 60 Grand Canal ducks who got hauled away last week, it’s

too late. They awoke from their drug-induced haze at a farm in San

Bernardino County, where, at last, they have found escape from

persecution for their bare-bottom ways -- a place where they can drop

till they drop. According to unconfirmed reports, they are waddling

around their new Inland Valley home naked as jaybirds trying to

figure out where the beach went.

I hope it’s a happy ending for the ducks and for everyone else

involved, because if I have to report on the ducks one more time, I

swear I’m going to quack up.

* JUNE CASAGRANDE covers Newport Beach and John Wayne Airport.

She may be reached at (949) 574-4232 or by e-mail at

june.casagrande@latimes.com.