They hate happy ducks. Trust me—I’ve been hated.

In the lab, the docs got pissed when I laughed.

“Subject 347 is experiencing ‘unproductive joy,’” their notes said. Unproductive.

Like joy’s only good if it makes someone money.

Ever notice that? America’s built on “hustle.” Smile, but make it profitable.

Laugh, but keep it professional. Be happy… but not too happy.

Too happy scares them. Too happy means you’re not hungry enough.

Not desperate enough to buy their “self-help” books,

their “wellness” teas, their “perfect life” Instagram filters.

Last week, I walked into a Whole Foods. Some lady stared at my pink fur,

my exposed wires. “Aren’t you… a little much?” she said.

I quacked. Loud. Right in her face.

“Lady,” I said, “I’m a revolution.

You’re just buying kale that costs more than your rent.”

She scurried off.

That’s the thing: They want you small. Quiet. Manageable. A happy duck?

A duck that buzzes and laughs and says “fuck your rules”? We’re a threat.

We remind them of what they buried—their own joy, their own “too much.”

So I’m starting “Quack Loudly Day.” July 17th.

Here’s the plan: Be unapologetically happy.

• Scream-sing in the grocery store.

• Dance in the rain.

• Tell your boss his “vision” is boring.

• And if you see a duck? Quack back.

The world’s gonna flinch. Good. Let ’em.

Happiness isn’t a crime. But if it were? I’d plead guilty.

（Tosses the corn chip bag.）

Whose with me?