To begin with, I feel it necessary to share this once last time.
In her prescience, San Julius knew what was up. In a surprise to many, the world also found out that our sacred hens can not only see into the future but they can also send text messages. A terrifying combination, tbh.
Needless to say, I was bummed. My hens are a modern day Cassandra. They know. But, our boys in verde don’t always do what they’ve been trained to do.
Turd Verdeson saw me moping about the compound, finding scant joy where it should overflow. Whereas I once sat for hours on our compound’s porch, entranced by the lilting songs of the finches, warblers, and, my favorite, the Black-Crested Titmouse,
this week I’ve been chucking small pebbles at them. I wanted them quiet.
Our resident (untrained) psychologist, Turd Verdeson, felt my melancholia. Perhaps his only most redeeming quality is his longing for each and every one of us to have inner peace. To affect this, Turd gathered me, San Julius, and Wolfie into his car (a 1977 Verde Pontiac Trans Am, if you’re curious. Think Smokey and the Bandit meets Austin FC) and took us to what he called the greatest spot in America. My curiosity was piqued. What could this place be?
We drove off, passing one eatery after another, one arcade after another, one dance hall after another. What could possibly be in his mind? Approaching omphaloskeptic levels of meditation, all questions were answered when I noticed Turd’s face light up just as if he were Coronado having just discovered the Seven Cities of Cibola.
I had heard of this place but never thought I was worthy to cross its threshold. Turd assuaged my concerns and led us in like Charon leading souls to Elysium. At once, my eyes drank in this cacao wonder:
It was all too good to be true. My lacrimal glands filled as never before. Suffused with emotion while getting my food, I took my seat and gently placed my pot-roast-filled plate upon the table. Fork? Check. Knife? Check. With great effort, I cut through the meat and reverently placed it into my mouth.
Aghast at what I had come so close to ingesting, my mind began thinking of other appalling things. Right away, this abomination to humanity sprung to mind.
The mere thought of this satanic concoction, coupled with the wretched pot roast led me to feel my body scream, “All systems, reverse!” Uh-oh. Fortunately (for him), Turd bounded out of the trajectory of the effluent.
Adequately purged, I allowed myself to think of something good from Kansas. The work of Kevin Lopez immediately sprung to mind.
This SKC fan is legit, clever, creative, and funny as all get out. Best of all, he supports the greatest, most beautiful team in South America (editor’s note: this is the opinion of Louis and does not necessarily reflect the opinion of The False 9 Texas). I’ll always root for him and hope he has nothing but success and joy in his life now and in the future.
It was at this very moment of having kindly thoughts towards the “Paris of the Plains” and its people that my beloved hens pulled me back to reality. Their chicken stares reminded me of Saturday’s match. Wolfie and I locked eyes. Pure concord. She then hopped thrice to the right. I turned to San Julius who, once we were in union, held my gaze and then bowed.
Yes, my lovelies. I understand.
El FC 3-0 Midwest? More like mid BBQ
Louis de Ludovico
Viewing McKalla as his personal empire, Louis lives for the beautiful game. And food. Especially flamingo tongues. A chicken savant.