'There's these three statisticians gone duck hunting,' he said. He paused. 'They're like statisticians by trade.’
'I'm with you so far.’
'And they gone off hunting duck, and they're hunkered down in the muck of a duck blind, for hunting, in waders and hats and all, your top-of-the-line Winchester double-aughts, so on. And they're quacking into one of them kazoos duck hunters always quack into.’
'Duck-calls,' I said.
'There you go.' Stice tried to nod against the window. 'Well and here comes this one duck come flying on by overhead.’
'Their quarry. The object of their being out there.’
'Damn straight, their raisin-debt and what have you, and they're getting set to blast the son of a whore into feathers and goo,' Stice said. 'And the first statistician, he brings up his Winnie and lets go, and the recoil goes and knocks him back on his ass kersplat in the muck, and but he's missed the duck, just low, they saw. And so the second statistician he up and fires then, and back he goes too on his ass too, these Winnies gota fucker of a recoil on them, and back on his ass the second one goes, from firing, and they see his shot goes just high.’
'Misses the duck as well.’
'Misses her just high. At which and then the third statistician commences to whooping and jumping up and down to beat the band, hollering "We got him, boys, we done got him!"‘
Someone was crying out in a bad dream and someone else was yelling for quiet. I wasn't even pretending to laugh. Stice didn't seem to expect me to. He shrugged without moving his head. His forehead had not once left the cold glass.
ofalkaed•2mo ago
'There's these three statisticians gone duck hunting,' he said. He paused. 'They're like statisticians by trade.’
'I'm with you so far.’
'And they gone off hunting duck, and they're hunkered down in the muck of a duck blind, for hunting, in waders and hats and all, your top-of-the-line Winchester double-aughts, so on. And they're quacking into one of them kazoos duck hunters always quack into.’
'Duck-calls,' I said.
'There you go.' Stice tried to nod against the window. 'Well and here comes this one duck come flying on by overhead.’
'Their quarry. The object of their being out there.’
'Damn straight, their raisin-debt and what have you, and they're getting set to blast the son of a whore into feathers and goo,' Stice said. 'And the first statistician, he brings up his Winnie and lets go, and the recoil goes and knocks him back on his ass kersplat in the muck, and but he's missed the duck, just low, they saw. And so the second statistician he up and fires then, and back he goes too on his ass too, these Winnies gota fucker of a recoil on them, and back on his ass the second one goes, from firing, and they see his shot goes just high.’
'Misses the duck as well.’
'Misses her just high. At which and then the third statistician commences to whooping and jumping up and down to beat the band, hollering "We got him, boys, we done got him!"‘
Someone was crying out in a bad dream and someone else was yelling for quiet. I wasn't even pretending to laugh. Stice didn't seem to expect me to. He shrugged without moving his head. His forehead had not once left the cold glass.