Wow. We were wrong. Gloriously wrong. I’m ecstatic that we were wrong. In our defense, I’d like to ask anyone to point us to a reputable bookie who got the prediction correct. The only logical conclusion: despite the odds, our boys in verde will not be stopped.
Honestly, I was wondering how we were so off the mark. To find the answer, I went to the hens’ well appointed coop, festooned with the fabric of our lives.
Having entered, I found both Wolfie and San Julius in a state I’ve never encountered before. I thought they’d perhaps be sheepish, perhaps chastened, perhaps remorseful. But, no. None of these emotions was showing. Rather, both were sitting there with headphones on just . . . vibing.
Perplexed, I called for them to shake their headphones off. Finally, after about 5 minutes, they acceded. I could hear the music cascading out like some river, swollen by the spring rains. Trying to make out the song took some time, but then it hit me.
My hens are Phishheads? I had no idea. To be honest, gentle reader, I was slightly embarrassed for them. I’ve always contended jam bands are vastly overrated, including Grateful Dead. Then, after a moment’s reflection, I realized it could be worse. Much worse.
Getting their attention, I attempted to begin some standard interlocution. They were having none of it, but just staring into space. Exasperated, I asked them if they wanted to show or tell me something. Woo-boy, did they.
Little did I know, in their salad days of youth, they both had gone through a tragic hair care phase: frosted tips. Having thusly confided this dreadful secret to me, both pulled out a photo from their early chickenhood. First up, San Julius.
Holy bird! San Julius was evidently a regular at Burning Man! How did I miss this? Not wanting to know the answer, I refrained from asking her about altered states of consciousness and other forms of experimentation.
Then, Wolfie showed me this gem:
What?! A semi-profession surfer who also specialized in dune buggy races? I now know to whom to turn when I’m in need of driving around Baja in an endless summer, searching for the perfect wave.
These revelations made me reflect upon my life and my approach to everything. I began to murmur, “Am I too uptight? Do I need to let loose? Will my chickens be my Sibyl, as Vergil to Dante? Will they alter the course of my life.”
I demurely turned to my lovely hens, hoping for a sign. They both gave me a wing’s up.
Let’s do this!
We’re not scattering feed. We’re not looking at injury reports. We’re not looking at standings.
Rather, as Samuel L. Jackson would say, we’re just living on this MF’n compound making MF’n predictions.
El FC 5-0 Whoever it is we’re playing