That reminds me of a story. A couple of guys from the city were out duck hunting. After seeing nothing for hours, they finally see a single duck coming up off a lake. At the very edge of his range, the first guy named Bob pulls the trigger. At first, he thinks he missed, but then, the duck goes down on the other side of the lake. Bob and his buddy hike around the lake and hope a fence to get to the duck. However, to their surprise, a farmer was walking back to his house with the duck.
"Hey," Bob yells. "That's my duck!"
The old farmer stops and turns back to face him. Tapping his chest, he announces, "My property, my duck."
"But I shot him!" Bob argues. "It's my hunting license, my birdshot that killed him, so it's my duck!"
The old farmer just shakes his head. "City slickers."
Bob, however, isn't giving up. "Give me my duck!"
The farmer looks at the duck in his hand, then raises it up to eye level, an eyebrow going up with it. "This duck?"
"Yes, that duck!"
The farmer makes a show of thinking about it, then starts walking towards Bob. "Tell ya what were 'bout to do. We'll play a game fo' the duck."
Bob gazes at the old farmer and realizes he is at least 30 years younger. Whatever the game, there's no way he can loose. "Fine, if I win, I get my duck back, no arguments!"
The old farmer nods, then walks up to him. "We'll play grapes. The first one to give up loses."
Bob no sooner grunts his agreement than the old farmer rears back and toe-punches Bob right in the grapes. He doubles up and crashes to the ground like a chainsawed sycamore tree. Cupping his throbbing man parts, he moans and groans as he rolls around the ground.
Fifteen minutes later, Bob makes it back to his feet, his jaw set in anger. "It's my turn!"
The Old Farmer chuckles. "You can have the damn duck." He throws it at Bob's feet and walks back into his home, laughing all the way.