Hot, Hot, Hot

My beloved hens and I are slowly coming down from the amazing comeback vs. Colorado a few days ago. I should amend that statement to say: amazing to some, but not us. Lest you forget, gentle reader, the chickens saw it coming and told you so. I fear too many of you don’t recognize their awesome and fearsome power; that you treat them as some silly diversion from your overly hot, workaday world rather than the prophets that they are. Honestly, each one is akin to some modern day, befeathered Cassandra.

Trust the chickens.

With that off my chest, let’s turn to matters at hand. For me and my mates here at the compound, the obscene weather has been the talk of the town. It’s so hot. Hotter than Georgia asphalt. That’s all we discuss. If I can entrust you with some tea, the one who collapses like some overcooked spaghetti noodle whenever it hits 95 is Turd Verdeson. It’s pathetic, actually. Even Alistair, who hails from the lovely Orkney town of Stromness, takes it in stride.

While Turd is there crying like a toddler who lost his Binky, Uncle Tony P. stands out on the lawn like

Yesterday, as we all sat on the patio, sipping some nice lemonade, Pennypacker began to hum a song. It took me a bit of time to nail it down, but it then hit me like a ton of bricks.

That’s it! We need to not only embrace the heat, but we need to also fête it. So, we called our favorite place here in town, Tiki Tatsu-Ya. Andrea set out some Polynesian umbrellas, I checked our rum stocks, and Slan, being Slan, sent everyone this clip on our group text.

Tiki Tatsu-Ya showed up and showed out. I proceeded to gorge out on the Foie Gras Musubi. I’m a sucker for foie gras in any incarnation. Nothing of this world tastes better to me than the distended, puréed liver of a force-fed goose.

We won’t go into too many details, but someone whose name sounds like Mavel McMavelface imbibed one too many Strip ‘N Go Nakeds for his own good. We’ll just leave it at, although it might be a waxing gibbous moon as you read this, it was full on moon streaking across the compound.

We were full of both Polynesian food and fruit filled drinks. A gentle breeze began to waft up from Town Lake. The mosquitos were at bay from our many citronella candles. In other words, life was good.

I then remembered that our El FC was taking on Atlanta. I summoned my lovely hens. I’m like the Good Shepherd: I know my hens and they know me.

Standing in front of me, I scatter the ethically sourced, pelleted feed and ask their thoughts on the upcoming match. Nothing. They simply stand there, gazing the gaze of a chicken at me. I’m confounded, flummoxed, befuddled. I scatter more. Still nothing.

Finally, in exasperation, I shout, “Well?”

Immediately, San Julius kicks an ethically sourced pellet at me and stares the stare of a chicken.

Ah, I get it.

El FC 0-0 Atlanta

P.S.: Wolfie wanted me to know that this is based on Romaña and Corozo not playing. If they do play, all bets are off.