Dear readers, I can’t lie to you. This has been a doleful week. Although I stand by what my beloved hens predicted, nevertheless there seem to be powers even greater than chickens.
This game buffeted me about like a ship in stormy seas. The failure to win was bad enough to take, but this loss hurt more:
Some people, not without merit, take issue Cascante. But we saw what a calming presence he can bring to the squad. It’s difficult to suddenly put down this love of his play. It is difficult but we must effect it in some way or other. This is the one salvation. We must conquer this. We must do this, whether it is impossible or possible.
Nevertheless, I was afflicted with the sads. O gods, if I have lived my life purely, snatch away this pestilence and ruin from me!
Trying to walk off my despondency, I came across my compound-mate, Turd Verdeson, singing a ditty with full throat.
Just as Archimedes sitting in his tub, understanding water displacement, clarity and understanding enveloped me and I shouted, “Eureka!”
The only sensible, sane, solution for this scary situation is a smattering of the supernatural.
Immediately, I scooped the hens in my whip (powder blue, 1986 Aries K, 2-door coupe), went to the store and bought them out of prayer candles.
The amount of lumens generated at the compound could’ve lit up the entirety of the Parmer Complex. I’m not taking any chances.
First step complete. Now we need to clean the air of McKalla. I went to my emergency stores, kept for just such an occasion. My two special suitcases obtained, we pulled up to the Zebra Gate, snuck in, and lit them up.
That sweet, pungent smell of sage wafted up, carrying the bad juju with it. The stars, flickering and dancing in the late winter’s sky accepted the energy and redirected it to the northern suburbs of Dallas. A prayer of release made manifest.
Finally, we took went back to the compound and picked up some of the eggs our hens have laid.
Following the dicta of an abuelita I met in the Valley 10 years ago, the hens and I sped back to McKalla, determined to rid the place of mal ojo. I began to rub the field with the eggs, letting them soak up anything negative that wasn’t carried away by the sage. I subsequently dropped the eggs into water, just as I had been taught.
Happy with our work, we stopped at a florist to buy something beautiful. So much time had been spent on ugly that we felt we, and everyone at the compound, needed some brightness in life. I traipsed in, faffed about a bit, and then saw the flowers I wanted.
Bringing them back to my car, I showed the hens. San Julius, upon seeing the lilies, sat up straight and locked eyes with me. Yes! The lily. France. Canada. Montreal. Our minds melded and chakras aligned. She spat once to the left and then winked twice to the right.
Yes, my dear. I understand.
El FC 2-1 Lily lovers
Louis de Ludovico
Viewing McKalla as his personal empire, Louis lives for the beautiful game. And food. Especially flamingo tongues. A chicken savant.