My dear reader, last match was craptastic. My hens somehow didn’t pick up on the less than stellar 2nd act of our Lord Redes.
It’s not as though we were taken out behind the woodshed, but we certainly didn’t cover ourselves in glory. With Redes on the field, my hens insist their prediction would’ve held. Phil West, gave no comment, despite repeated attempts to get an explanation for his prediction.
Enveloped in gloom, I decided to walk about the compound, trusting that some fresh air would do me good. I found myself by our woodshed. It’s a little known fact that Turd Verdeson is an aspiring lumberjack.
He’s quite good at it, to be honest. We have enough oak, mesquite, and more oak cut and nicely stacked to survive at least 4 more winters with Greg Abbott steering our ship of state.
While sitting there, marveling at Turd’s preternatural gift of organizing woods by their geographic origin (Southern Live Oak over here, Mexican White Oak over there, Lacy Oak in that spot, Pin Oak sneaks in nicely as well), Wolfie made her way up to me.
Her eyes led mine to an old magazine that was barely visible. I was afraid to pick it up. Who knows who buried what magazine in such a secluded part of our compound. Unsure if there was enough hand sanitizer necessary should this periodical be, ahem, “used.”
With great trepidation, I gently tugged at the corner and lifted the magazine. Reader, it was not what I expected.
It was at this moment that a chill ran down my spine. A magazine with a bunch of teenagers? I was situated right behind a woodshed? Wait. El FC play Seattle next? NO!
I turned to my beloved hen for succor. Sadly, she proffered none. Rather, she took three steps to the left and stood still. Absolutely still.
Yes, my love, I sadly understand.
El FC 0-3 Seattle and its Teens