Gentle reader, it’s been some time since I last wrote to you. Since then, we have had to say farewell to our original coach, the Wolffman himself:
Not him. But, rather, our own Josh Wolff.
I, for one, do not lament the saying of farewell, but I also do not not wish him any ill feelings or delight in his dismissal. He is a person, a human being with a family, and I wish the best for him in his future.
One thing I can not say farewell to, though, are my beautiful hens, delight of my life, wind beneath my wings.
Above all, they give me insight into the future, most notably how our El FC matches will turn out.
Needing some chicken time, I traipsed across the compound to their new coop, a gift from Chef Rodo himself. No sign of them. Frantic, I ran into the house and screamed, “Chickens! Where are my chickens?!” Turd Verdeson, my stalwart, gently broke the news to me.
They’re gone. Gone. A chasm in my soul expands, to this day, at a rate faster than light itself.
My life is without meaning. I uttered no farewell. I provided no gentle and dignified burial. Nothing.
Turd explained that they seemed to have contracted the bird flu and died while I was in Schenectady, New York, attending an avian prognostication conference.
I couldn’t believe it. I looked to the CDC’s site on birdflu and told him that there’s no reporting of it here in Central Texas.
I desperately turned to Charles, seeking confirmation. Surely, this map is accurate? There’s no way federally sourced data could be wrong? Why would anyone mislead the public on something so basic, so fundamental as public health? Cui bono? His reply?
Cursing 49.8% of the population, I, afflicted with a stupor heretofore never seen, stumbled out of the house and wandered. I wandered where I once traipsed. I stumbled where I once bounded. Bleakness. Darkness. More Dickensian than Dickens himself.
Enveloped in this stupor, I somehow found myself at the Congress Avenue Bridge. I looked at the structure, yet all I could see was the beautiful coop Rodo had just designed, assembled, and painted for my hens. Based on the pitch of melancholy I was experiencing, my black bile levels must’ve been at astronomic levels.
A single, solitary Mexican free-tailed bat fluttered about. Odd to be here this time of year, I mused, but strangely comforting.
At this moment of despair, a boy looking strangely like Francis Buxton approached me,
asking who will will in El FC’s opening match. I was flummoxed. I had no chickens to help with such a query. He stared at me, awaiting an answer. I have no idea, gentle reader. I am not blessed with such gifts. But, I gave my people what they wanted.
El FC 3-0 Wiz