Happy, Happy, Happy: My Life and Legacy as the Duck Commander

player “dead,” and he had to withdraw from the game. When everyone on one side had been “killed,” the remaining players on the other side had won.
    Some little quirks in the game made it noteworthy. Although you could keep playing if a corncob hit you above the waist, you had better not stick your head out from behind cover or you risked a knot on your noggin. You were fair game for a well-aimed cob, whether or not it “killed” you.
    Necessity also added another messy detail. In the late spring and summer, corncobs became scarce around the barn, but there were always plenty of dried cow chips. These became legal missiles, too. If you found one that was crusted over enough to pick up but still soft on the inside, you were a force to be feared. We still laugh about a wet patty that got Jimmy Frank full in the face. Luckily, he was wearing his glasses.
    We also played a game in which we would wrench old, dried cornstalks from the ground and square off like sword fighters in a duel. One would hold his stalk out, and the other would strike and try to break it. If he failed, the other was required to hold hisstalk out and let it be smashed. Whoever survived with an intact cornstalk, usually after repeated smashes, was the winner.
    I guess now I know why my sons are so darned competitive—they learned it from their father. My brothers and I spent our youth competing with each other outdoors; there weren’t any Xbox 360 or Nintendo games to keep us occupied inside. I spent my youth exploring the fields, woods, and swamps that surrounded our home. My time out in nature shaped the rest of my life, and it’s something I wanted to make sure my sons learned to enjoy. Whether it was hunting, fishing, or playing sports, my children were going to grow up outside. They weren’t going to be sitting on the couch inside.
    At least they didn’t grow up to be nerds.

RISE, KILL, AND EAT
    Rule No. 3 for Living Happy, Happy, Happy
    Learn to Cook (It’s Better than Eating Slop)
    H ere’s a fact: every human being on Earth has to eat or they will die. It’s called starvation. You have to eat if you’re a human being, whether you live in Monroe, Louisiana, or in some foreign land, like Los Angeles or New York. There has to be a food supply, and you have to consume food or you’re dead. It’s an undeniable fact—look it up.
    Not everyone likes to eat. These little chicks today are starving themselves to death, which is kind of ironic, but it’s their choice. Since you have to eat to live, you’re left with a dilemma. You can choose not to learn how to cook and just eat slop, and you’ll stay alive. You can live off terrible cooking, which doesn’t taste very good, but you’ll somehow manage to survive. But my contention is that if you have to eat anyway, it just seems to me that you’re shortchanging yourself if you don’tlearn how to cook. If you have to eat, why not learn how to eat well?
    Of course, the downside to eating well is that if you eat too much, you can’t get through the door. Well, if that happens, you might ought to cut back some. You can overdo anything, and when you can’t get through the door because you’re too rotund, you might ought to say, “I think I need to start eating a few salads.” I’m not saying you should just shovel it in. I’m just saying if you learn how to cook, your stay on Earth might be more enjoyable.
    I learned to cook when I was young, and most of my meals started with something I killed. I have a God-given right to pursue happiness, and happiness to me is killing things, skinning them, plucking them, and then having a good meal. What makes me happy is going out and blowing a duck’s head off. As it says in Acts 10:13 (KJV), “And there came a voice to him, Rise, Peter; kill, and eat.”

    What makes me happy is going out and blowing a duck’s head off.

    Rise, kill, and eat—that’s my modus operandi.
    When I was young, heaven to me was hunting in the woods around our house or fishing on the nearby lakes and rivers. We hunted and threw lines into the Red River for catfish and white perch nearly every day. We didn’t have much of a choice; it’s where we got our next meal.
    But when I was in high school, we were forced to move out of the log cabin where I grew up. My aunt Myrtle sold the farm, so we moved to the nearby town of Dixie, Louisiana. The town was a nice enough place; we lived on Main Street, just a stone’s throw from Stroud’s General Store,