Broussard calls up his friend Boudreaux, “Hey, Boudreaux, you all set to go duck hunting the day before T’anksgiving like we always do?”
“Mais, Broussard, I got some bad news for you,” Boudreaux replied. “I can’t go. I got de ‘blue flu’.”
“How you say dat? The blue flu? What’s dat?”
“Mah wife is blue, and she told me I gots to stay home wit’ her tomorrow to cook for T’anksgiving. So I can’t go shoot dem ducks wit’ you dis year. But you can brang me one back, yeah.”
“Mais, Boudreaux, how I’m gonna do dat me? You know we gotta have bof’us to pole the pirogue back with all dem ducks.”
“Don’t worry, my mom-in-law’s minister’s been axing to go duck hunting wit’ me. He’ll go wit’ you fo’ sho.”
“Boudreaux, you mean dat minister from the church wat don’t drink liquor? I don’t know about dat, me.”
“Look, Broussard, dere’ll be more Jack Daniels for you, n’est ce pas?”
“Mais, I nevah t’ought about dat. You right dere!”
So Broussard and the teetotaling minister ended up in the duck blind early Wednesday, right at daybreak, all ready to shoot ducks for the Thanksgiving feast. The sky was clear, the air was bitter cold, and a strong wind was blowing from the North. Not too many good things come from the North, Broussard thought, as he sipped his Jack Daniels from Lynchburg, Tennessee. Only problem was the ducks must have had blue flu, too, as none of them showed up. So Broussard popped open a bottle of Jack Daniels to take a swig to get warm. The minister popped open a can of Sterno, heated up his tea pot, and poured himself a cup of tea.
It was a long, cold day, punctuated only by more swigs of Jack Daniels and more sips of tea. The sun was setting in the West, when Broussard slugged down the remains of his third fifth of whiskey and the minister sipped his last cup of tea. Suddenly they saw one lone duck flapping its way towards their duck blind. Being occasionally religious, Broussard allowed the minister to shoot first.
The minister stood up, took careful aim, and fired one shot. BANG! The duck wiggled a little and kept flying. BANG! Second shot missed too. BANG! Third shot hit a few tail feathers that floated gently to the water, but the duck kept flying stronger than ever. The near miss must have confused the duck, however, because it made sharp turn that took it past the duck blind again.
Broussard stood up in the pirogue, swayed from side to side, waved his shotgun in the air, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger. BANG! The duck dropped dead into the water!
The minister exclaimed, “That was an INCREDIBLE shot!”
“Mais, it was easy,” Broussard said, a little slur in his voice, “I jest shot in the middle of the flock!”