Barnaby Buttercup, a man whose moustache rivaled a badger in width, adjusted his tweed jacket. He was hosting his annual “Sophisticated Snipe Soiree,” though, in truth, it was more like a bunch of chaps awkwardly standing around sipping lukewarm tea and desperately trying to avoid eye contact with the taxidermied badger in the corner.
This year, however, Barnaby was determined to impress. He’d procured what he believed was the pièce de résistance: a magnificent pheasant, freshly plucked and ready for roasting. He proudly displayed it on a silver platter, its iridescent feathers gleaming under the dim light.
“Behold, gentlemen!” Barnaby boomed, gesturing theatrically. “The centerpiece of our evening! A pheasant so fine, it practically sings an opera!”
Silence. One guest coughed. Another nervously adjusted his monocle. Finally, young Cecil, never one for social graces, piped up. “Mr. Buttercup,” he said, squinting at the bird. “Are you absolutely sure that’s a pheasant? It looks… rather… deflated.”
Barnaby puffed out his chest. “Deflated? Nonsense, Cecil! It’s merely… aesthetically streamlined. A modern pheasant, if you will.”
Just then, Mrs. Higgins, Barnaby’s notoriously sharp-tongued housekeeper, bustled in. “Barnaby, dear, I’ve put the… uh… ‘pheasant’ in the oven. Though I must say, it felt awfully light. Like a deflated football, almost.” She paused, sniffing the air. “And is it just me, or does it smell faintly of rubber?”
Barnaby’s face went pale. He dashed to the kitchen, followed by a gaggle of curious guests. There, sitting in the oven, slowly melting, was not a pheasant, but a remarkably lifelike, pheasant-shaped rubber ducky. Mrs. Higgins looked at Barnaby, raised an eyebrow, and quipped, “Pheasant? I hardly knew ’em!”
