A duck walks into a bar one slow Tuesday afternoon.
The bartender looks up, freezes, blinks twice, and then stares.
A duck… ordering a drink.
“Uh… can I help you?” the bartender finally asks.
The duck nods.
“Yeah, mate. I’ll have a pint of your draft beer and a ham sandwich, thanks.”
The bartender stands there, mouth hanging open.
“You… talk?” he manages.
The duck sighs.
“Clearly. Otherwise, this would be a very strange order.”
So the bartender pours the drink, the duck takes a seat at the bar like he owns the place, opens a folded newspaper under his wing, and starts reading the sports section.
The bartender watches in shock the entire time.
Finally he asks, “What’s a duck doing here, ordering beer and sandwiches?”
“I’m working nearby,” the duck replies. “I’m a plasterer. Big construction job at the old library. Hard work. I come here for lunch.”
And from that day on, the duck returns every single afternoon—always at noon, always ordering the same thing:
A pint, a ham sandwich, and the newspaper.
The bartender grows fond of him.
The duck tips well.
He even laughs at the bartender’s jokes.
For two weeks, it becomes the highlight of the bartender’s day.
Then, one morning, something exciting happens.
Circus posters appear all over town—bright red signs announcing:
“THE MAGNIFICENT ROSARIO BROTHERS CIRCUS!
Now Hiring Amazing Talent!”
That afternoon, the circus ringmaster himself wanders into the bar, ordering a drink.
The bartender sees an opportunity.
“You run the circus, right?” he asks.
“Yes indeed,” the ringmaster replies proudly.
The bartender beams.
“I’ve got something for you. A real star. A duck.”
The ringmaster laughs.
“A talking duck? Are you joking?”
“No joke,” the bartender insists. “He’ll be here any minute.”
Sure enough, at noon sharp, the door swings open and in waddles the duck—helmet under one wing, work boots under the other.
The bartender rushes to him.
“Listen, buddy, I’ve got fantastic news! The circus is in town. They want to HIRE you!”
The duck freezes, his eyes wide.
“Hire… me?”
“Yes! Imagine it!” the bartender says, bouncing with excitement.
“Huge crowds! Bright lights! Center stage! Travel the world!”
But the duck just stares.
Then he shakes his head in disbelief and asks:
“What on earth would the circus want with a plasterer?”
The bartender blinks, confused.
“You’re… you’re a talking duck.”
“Yeah,” the duck says slowly, “and?”
“And?! You talk! You drink beer! You read newspapers! You’re incredible!”
The duck shrugs.
“So what? I’m a plasterer. I’ve got a good job. I’m not running away to join some circus.”
The bartender tries everything—persuasion, praise, enthusiasm—but the duck only waves a wing dismissively.
“No thanks, mate. Now, about my sandwich…”
**But that wasn’t the end of it.
Because what happened the next day changed everything.**
The duck didn’t show up.
Not at noon.
Not at one.
Not at all.
The bartender kept glancing at the clock, at the door, at the empty barstool.
A whole week passed with no sign of him.
Finally, worried, the bartender walked down to the old library where the duck worked.
The construction site was shut down, the equipment hauled away.
A single sign hung on the chain-link fence:
“PROJECT CLOSED DUE TO STRUCTURAL DAMAGE.”
The bartender felt a pit in his stomach.
He asked around—neighbors, workers, even the mailman.
Everyone said the same thing:
“There was an accident. Roof collapse. The plasterer duck was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
The bartender went home heartbroken.
But three days later—late at night, as he swept the floors—he heard the familiar sound of webbed feet slapping the wooden planks.
He looked up.
And there he was.
The duck.
Covered in dust, feathers ruffled, wearing a tiny cast on one wing.
“You’re alive!” the bartender cried. “What happened? Everyone said you were gone!”
“I nearly was,” the duck replied, climbing awkwardly onto his stool. “Ceiling came down. Messy job. I got out with a broken wing, but the company—well, they shut everything down.”
The bartender exhaled in relief.
“So what now? No work?”
“Nope,” the duck said. “Lost the site. Lost the paycheck. Lost everything.”
The bartender hesitated.
“Well… the circus still wants you.”
The duck paused.
Then he smiled.
“You know… I’ve been thinking about that.”
And so the duck joined the circus.
Crowds adored him.
Children screamed with delight.
He rode motorcycles, cracked jokes, danced on stilts, even juggled flaming torches—though never more than two at a time because of the wing cast.
He became a star.
The posters read:
✨ “DAZZLING DONALD — THE WORLD’S ONLY TALKING, BEER-DRINKING, NEWSPAPER-READING PLASTERER DUCK!” ✨
And every night after the show, he’d sit in his dressing room, sipping a pint and reading the newspaper—just like always.
Sometimes, when the circus returned to town, he’d waddle into the bar, climb onto his old stool, and greet the bartender with a grin.
“Mate,” he’d say, “you were right. Best opportunity of my life.”
And the bartender would smile back, shaking his head.
“Only you,” he’d say, “could make plastering look like the wrong career for a duck.”
