As ducks go about their daily rituals, occasionally an accident will occur, and a broken wing or broken leg will send the hapless duck off to an emergency hospital to encounter a quack. The severity of the injury is assessed and if the insurance card that the victim surrenders rings the dinner bell, then it’s off to the races. First on the list is radiology. After a thorough nuclear bath in X-rays, Deuterium Duck (DD) can now trip a Geiger counter at 100 paces. Suspecting some possible tissue damage, DD is now strapped into a $5G MRI or a $3G Cat scan. The results are confirmed; DD has some minor bruising in the vicinity. Thank the Almighty Duck for technology. Next on the list is a gurney ride to the lab for blood work. 2 pints of mislabeled vials will confirm hepatitis C, Nile virus, encephalitis, blood type AB, and pregnancy. Mr. DD is AB; got one right. So off he goes to get anally reamed by the Proctologist, gagged by the Otolaryngologist, blinded by the Ophthalmologist, seminally milked by the Urologist, and given an attempted Pap smear (now a poop smear) by a Gynecologist. The results are in. Five quacks just scored a bundle performing unnecessary work. They then made a beeline to the Country Club in their Teslas, chasing ducks down the sidewalks just for fun. The last one there buys. As they paddle down their drinks, they laugh at their client’s stupidity and pass them around for all the Duck Dynasties to profit from. This is an elite place where references are built, and networking abounds. Even if Doctor Duck is lacking in skills that can inadvertently kill, this isn’t a diagnostic and treatment service, this is free for all to load up on loons. Twenty grand a year for a Country Club membership is cheap advertising. After all, a $280 office visit only covers the staff and overhead unless the waiting room has a flock of seagulls that have inadvertently trusted the prestigious quacks. A beating heart is a bonanza.