Perhaps the only solace I am taking is that the (previously assumed) omniscient Phil West failed in his prediction as well.
What is clearly needed is a recalibration. A recalibration for both my beloved hens and for me as I interpret their messages.
I came to this conclusion as I was driving around West Campus, hunting for the spot where I whittled away the salad days of my youth: Les Amis. As I was searching in vain for this beloved institution at 24th and Nueces, my trusty tape deck to CD adapter failed me. It needed to be fixed, just like our predictions.
I knew there was only one place to go to fix this audio tragedy.
They got my whip accessories in tip top shape, charged a fair price, and I am grateful.
While waiting on the repairs, I turned to my hens. I explained to them that, perhaps, they might be just a smidge off in their visions. They did not respond well.
Reader, I’ve never had my ass handed to me like that in my life. They took me to the edge of this world and the River Styx. Now, I enjoy inhabiting liminal spaces, but this was something else. Besides, I hate the band Styx.
Nevertheless, I survived and negotiated a truce between me and the hens. I agreed to never question their visions again and they agreed to not again take me behind the proverbial woodshed. Today, at least.
So, in an effort, to test our newfound détente, I asked the hens their opinion on this weekend’s match vs. Colorado. San Julius locked eyes with me, our chakras aligned. She hopped once to the left and once to the right. Then, still. Absolutely still.
Incredulously, I asked Wolfie if she thought that was correct. Reader, it’s difficult to explain her reaction, but if you can imagine a chicken cracking her knuckles, the sight and sound of which that causes bowels to loosen, that’s what I was met with. Naturally, I backed off. This is not the score I want or expected, but it’s what was given to me and I fear for my bodily integrity.
El FC 1-1 Rapidly Shrinking Roster