Gentle reader, when is a not win a win? When the win wins over the fans like a wind through a window. Yes, my hens foresaw a victory, which, by the score, wasn’t correct, but, by the feeling afterwards, was. Phil West was just wrong:
It was here that San Julius came up to me. She looked at me as if to ask what was in store for the next match. Our next opponent, I told her, is a familiar foe. I refuse to speak only ill of their town. For Dallas can be a magical spot, if you open yourself up to it. The food scene can delight you and your senses.
The architecture can be marvelous. I.M. Pei’s city hall is one such beauty.
Brutal and modern. I love it.
If you’re into the old, Victorian-stylings of Texas courthouses, Dallas has you covered (and then some) with Old Red.
I guarantee that no one person reading these words will speak ill of the State Fair. Just me typing those words brought you visions of corny dogs and funnel cakes as well as the bucolic odors of the show animals.
I could go on and on. In fact, I was about to when Wolfie, whom I hadn’t seen approach, stomped on my foot. I, full of piss and vinegar, looked down at her, eager to chastise. Her eyes told me, however, that she wasn’t angry at me, but rather trying to get me back on track.
I intoned, “Yes, my dear, you’re right. We’re not playing Dallas. We’re playing Frisco.”
She nodded. We locked eyes and chakras. She took 3 happy steps to the right and one to the left.
El FC 3-1 Frisco
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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