Thursday morning, my lovely hens woke me up. They were all aflutter. I didn’t know why. Honestly, I wish they hadn’t. You see, I was in the middle of a dream. I was kissing Valentino by a crystal-blue, Italian stream.
Regardless, I was now mostly awake and did my best to give my hens the attention they deserved. They brought me over to their work desk. I’m a bit ashamed to admit it, but I bought that particle board beauty at the old Best store on 290, right by Cenote (Requiescat in pace). I think that Best building went through several iterations, including being a for-profit “college.” I think it’s abandoned now.
So, I half-somnambulated to that pressed-wood hunk of modern-day recycling and looked at what was pulled up on the screen:
Whoa! It was as if 681 servings of shade-grown, Sumatran kopi luwak were the chaser to a previously ingested 1000 shots of Ethiopian-sourced espresso. That’s a close approximation to how awake and excited I was.
My chickens clearly had put their previously missed prediction behind them. They were moving forward. They stared their plaintive, chicken eyes at me. I knew what they wanted. I wanted the same. So, we piled into my freshly fueled up powder blue, 2 door coupe, 1986 Aries K car, and made a beeline to the Verde Store at McKalla.
We arrived just before opening. Perhaps some of you, gentle readers, took note of us. We were the ones jamming out to David Hasselhoff as we pulled in.
We joined the line, chatted with a few people, and eventually made our way inside. We found ourselves next to the always amazing Ryan Parker, who was taking this photo.
We finally had our turn. I asked for a 10.5 (44 European) for myself and a Chicken 5.78 for San Julius and a Chicken 6.23 for Wolfie (she’s always had monstrous feet). I was handed mine forthwith, but no others. I performed some quick inquiry into the whereabouts of the chicken shoes.
Nothing.
This was something up with which I would not put. In disgust, I threw my coveted Sambas across the store and stormed out, crestfallen, with my beloved hens. We then cried. We cried tears of pure sadness. A pure release of negative emotion. How could Adidas fail so badly? This is a company built on honesty and integrity. Never engaging in anything nefarious in world football sponsorships, they are the epitome of moral rectitude. And their business decisions reflect that. Yet, they failed to produced the requisite chicken sizing. I imagine that Adi Dasler himself would be ashamed of this moment.
Dolefully, we loaded back into my whip and made our way back to the compound. Arriving and getting out, I could only muster a “I’m sorry” to my hens. They made no sound and went to their coop, which, as always, is well appointed with the fabric of our lives.
I gave them a few hours to realign their chakras and then approached their home. I was shocked when I heard them energetically moving about. I peeked inside and saw San Julius beginning an email. I only caught sight of the address.
Oh, crap! They’re not really doing this, are they? Have they been so offended that they are really seeking out help from Paul Pogba’s brother? They must’ve sensed my presence. Quickly turning around, their blood-red eyes stared at me. I slowly and silently backed away.
A few minutes later, San Julius stepped out, stared the stare of a chicken at me, took 1 halting step to the right and then 2 powerful steps to the left.
Yes, my dear, I understand. I understand one should never not have shoes in common chicken sizes.
El FC 1-2 Whoever it is we’re playing
Louis de Ludovico
Viewing McKalla as his personal empire, Louis lives for the beautiful game. And food. Especially flamingo tongues. A chicken savant.
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