San Julius and I took a punch to the gut last week from which we’ve yet to recover.
Who could’ve imagined Wolff’s professional goal was to mimic the 1993 Houston Oilers dramatic collapse vs the Buffalo Bills?
Seriously, I am a chicken savant and our hens are good at what they do. However, not even divinely inspired fowls are equal to our highly qualified coach’s impenetrable tactical nous.
So, in the name of mental health, I leashed up our hen who’s good at laying eggs, Rodney, and took a drive down scenic Burnet Road to clear our minds. Nothing calms an unsettled mind quite like the bucolic visual feast that is the 78757.
After we drove a bit and crossed into the bougie 56, our own Waterloo Shangri-la appeared as if some angelic vision:
We went in. Originally planning to consume some of Karbach’s finest craft offerings, I decided instead to fitfully pound down a few National Beers of Texas.
Thusly fortified and inspired, we made our way back to the compound where I spread out a tarp and divided it into squares and put numbers in those spaces. Time for our own take on chicken shit bingo. I made the decision to let Rodney’s scat predict the upcoming El FC vs Cold as a Witch’s Tit in a Brass Bra on the Dark Side of the Moon score.
Rodney was a tad apprehensive initially, but seemed to appreciate the warm tarp underfoot (or claw, as it may be). Didn’t take long. Nature called and Rodney answered. What followed seemed and sounded like a bazooka blast of melted crayons shooting out of our beloved bird’s cloaca.
Most of the excreta landed on one square. Without a doubt, this game will be messy and ugly.