Our legal eagle successfully aimed and fired, but fate had a quirkier plan. The duck took a nosedive, landing gracefully in the field of an elderly Scottish farmer. It was decision time for our lawyer—stay put or vault the fence.

Just as he was about to make his move, the farmer, riding high on his trusty tractor, arrived on the scene. In his gravelly Scottish brogue, he asked the lawyer the pivotal question: "What's yer game here, lad?"

The lawyer, with that confident city slicker demeanor, replied, "You see, I've shot this magnificent duck, and it's taken refuge in your field. I intend to retrieve my prize."

But the farmer, with a glint of mischief in his eye, wasn't about to roll over. "Oh, no ye won't. This is my turf, and you ain't crossing this fence."

Now, our lawyer, boasting of his legal prowess, threw down the gauntlet, "Listen, I'm one of the finest trial lawyers in all of the UK. If you obstruct me, I'll sue you into the next century and seize your every possession!"

To which the wily farmer retorted, "Ye may be a big shot in London, but here in bonnie Scotland, we handle disputes a wee bit differently. We've got what's known as the 'Scottish Three Kick Rule.'"

Naturally, the lawyer, eyebrows raised, inquired, "Pray tell, what's this Scottish Three Kick Rule you speak of?"

With a sly grin, the farmer explained, "It's simple, really. First, I kick you three times. Then, you kick me three times. We keep going back and forth until one of us calls it quits."

The lawyer, brimming with self-assurance, weighed his options. He figured he could dance through this peculiar Scottish custom with ease and gracefully claim his duck.

The farmer dismounted from his tractor with the unhurried air of a man who'd seen a few things in his time. He delivered the first kick, sending the lawyer crashing to his knees. The second kick—well, it redefined the term "close encounter."

By the time the farmer landed the third kick, squarely in the lawyer's kidney, it was like a bullseye in a game of darts.

Bruised, battered, but determined, the lawyer summoned his last ounce of resolve and managed to rise from the dirt. Through gritted teeth, he declared, "Alright, you rugged old Scotsman, it's my turn now."

The farmer, still grinning, let out a hearty laugh, "Ach, lad, I give in! You can keep the blasted duck!"

Moral of the story? Sometimes, in the face of local customs (or LIFE) and the spirit of camaraderie, even the most assertive of city slickers can find their match. And sometimes, it's worth considering the cost of that prized possession you're chasing after. 🦆💼😄

Moral #1

In life we want to make sure that we count the "COST" of every "PRIZE" ... even if it is a DUCK LOL

Moral #2

Don't subcome to meaningless tradition that does not serve your best interest. In life this can be when someone tells you that you can only accomplish a particular thing ... based on your background, ethnicity or gender.

For example many people thought that African Americans could never play baseball until Jackie Robinson broke the racial barrier.

QUACK QUACK!