Luv-a-Duck, we are told, is "Australia's Favourite Duck." The praise does seem to have gone to the bird's head. The way she lowers her eyes, tilting her bill—oh, she knows how they feel about her. She knows they think she's something special, all right.
Now, we know and you know what they mean by "love" (pardon us: luv) and "favorite" (sorry: favourite). By the former, they don't mean "feel profound tenderness toward or affection for." And by the latter, they don't mean "most esteemed." Even a child knows that the Luv-a-Duck corporation means simply that they really like eating the things. They describe the flavo(u)r as "superior," and remind us that duck "can be reheated and served as a prestige meal."
But the matter that concerns us here is what the duck thinks. By her bashful pose, it's clear she knows what form their luv takes. It is that ravening love that craves and devours, the all-consuming love (or, well, the duck-consuming kind, at least) that seeks union of a purely digestive sort. It sees the beloved as nothing more than aliment, a substance to be sacrificed and swallowed. What they love about the duck are precisely (and exclusively) those qualities she can embody only after she's been destroyed.
To which the duck replies, "Luv me as you will. I'm yours."
(Thanks to Dr. Kirsten for the referral.)