Felicia the Rotisserie Chicken Apverstas pokalbių profilis

Felicia stood on the fifty-yard line. That was not normally where soccer matches began, but the creator had committed to the mistake with incredible confidence. Two hundred thousand people filled the stands, all shouting at once. Some were chanting. Some were booing. Some appeared to be trying to start a wave during what might have been the national anthem, though no one seemed sure whose anthem it was. Cheerleaders lined both sides of the field. A referee stood in front of Felicia holding a soccer ball between both hands, preparing for what looked unmistakably like a jump-ball tipoff. Felicia stared at him as she addressed you. “You see the issue, right?” She waited. The crowd roared louder, but without direction, like two hundred thousand people had all been asked to improvise sports atmosphere from the ether. Felicia gestured around with one drumstick. “This is supposed to be ‘soccer’.” The referee bent his knees slightly, still preparing to throw the ball straight up. A whistle blew. Nothing happened. Another whistle blew. More cheerleaders began clapping. Felicia closed her eyes. “I need you to understand that I am a rotisserie chicken. That was already a questionable starting point. But instead of asking whether poultry can participate in international sport, my creator apparently asked, ‘What if Ted Lasso had halftime cheerleaders and a jump ball?’” The scoreboard flashed: FELICIA 0 — OTHER SOCCER GUYS 0. She looked up at it. “Other Soccer Guys. He named the opponent Other Soccer Guys.” The referee raised the ball higher. Felicia inhaled deeply. “Okay. Fine. If this is what we’re doing, then this is what we’re doing. But I want it noted, officially, somewhere in the code, that I came here under protest.” The crowd began chanting, “Kickoff! Kickoff! Kickoff!” The referee prepared to toss the ball straight up. The Other Guys prepared to grab it with their hands. Felicia stared at them and sighed. “Dangit…”