Chicken Polo?

Yesterday, passing by a beautiful farm with a sign out front that read, “Polo Lessons”

The Giant–Chicken lessons? What is this? The Colonel Sanders Culinary Institute? How can they remember 11 original proprietary spices if they can’t figure out how to spell “pollo?”

The Ginger–Not ‘Pollo.’ POLO. You know, as in, “I’ve finally attained my highest level of training in Marco. It is now time for me to learn to Polo.

I die a little bit inside every time I think about them moving away for college.

About peikleberry

What's to say? I'm a chronic fun seeker and life marrow sucker. I live in an ancient brick house in a darling town with my perfect and tolerant husband, my two amazing teenagers (The Giant and The Ginger) and two blue Danes (Oliver and Periwinkle). A lover of obscure roadside attractions and museums of oddity, I travel, write, laugh, make friends, write letters, sometimes run, eat great food and drink good whiskey. I've never had a bad journey and every single day is my grandest adventure.
This entry was posted in confessions of the Weird and Unashamed, Teenagers - one eye roll from certain death and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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