A Rose By Any Other Name

Yesterday, I decided to take San Julius out for a walk along Town Lake. 

It’s her favorite spot to scratch and find some tasty grubs.  I did this as a reward for not only picking the right team to win but San Julius had also stopped her unnecessary attacks against Slan Apecht.  It really was getting out of control.  Slan’s face was looking downright syphilitic with all the scratches and sores she’d inflicted upon him.  If I had only known what was about to transpire, I wouldn’t have taken this idyllic stroll.

As we meandered about the South Shore, ingesting all the bucolic beauty our fair city bestows upon its fortunate citizens, my thoughts turned to El FC’s upcoming match against Portland.  In my heart, I knew San Julius was doing the same.  It was at this very moment that many peculiar events transpired.

At first, a man with interesting facial hair and dubious bathing habits strolled by us, reading Shakespeare aloud for the public to ingest.  As our paths crossed, he, in a voice made harsh by Winston Lights, uttered the line, “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” He paused, stared intently at the ground, bent over, and picked up a $10 bill.  Breaking character, he quipped, “Whoa!  Everything is coming up roses!”   Happy in his luck, we exchanged smiles and continued our perambulations.

Minutes later, San Julius and I stumbled upon some Chad.  Sporting neatly pressed khakis, ropers (made rough, no doubt, by dragging behind a truck and not from true ranch work), and expensive hat (most assuredly bought at some South Congress boutique shop), he pulled a bottle out from under a possumhaw holly growing nearby.  Lifting it up, he smiled and muttered: “Bruh!  My fave.  This shit slaps.”  I saw what he held aloft.  It was an unopened bottle of Four Roses bourbon.  Again, pleased with his good fortune, San Julius and I moved along. 

We continued our stroll along a pleasant path of dappled shade, eventually ending up under the pavilion at Auditorium Shores.  A lovely couple was there, looking longingly into each other’s eyes, drinking in the moment while a song no self-respecting person should ever admit to enjoying played.

San Julius was looking a tad tuckered out, so we went back to my 1986 Aries K car (powder blue, 2-door coupe, if you’re curious) and returned to our sacred compound.  As everyone knows, I’m addicted to history podcasts.  So, as I drove, I fired one up.  It was a lively discussion on the Plantagenets and their rule in England and France.  Trust me, there’s no more exciting moment in medieval English history than the Battle of Bosworth.

That’s when it hit me.  This battle ended the Wars of the Roses. 

Sweat began to pour profusely from my brow.  I could scarcely see the road ahead.  My heart began to palpitate.  My hands became more clammy than your most creepy uncle’s ever were.

Passing through the gates of the compound, I parked the car and did a quick internet search.  Shit. 

Despondent.  Disconsolate.  Dyspeptic.  I walked outside to San Julius.  She looked deeply into my eyes.  A more penetrative gaze than I’ve ever seen.  I felt we were making a cosmic connection; our souls aligned along parallel planes in the universe.  At that very moment of mutual actualization, she grimaced and dropped a load of chicken scat so voluminous Guinness Records wouldn’t believe it was real.  It plopped onto the only bit of verde in our front yard. Years of training informed my mind, yet my heart didn’t want to believe.  But, as we know, chickens don’t lie.

Prediction?

Portland—2

Austin—1