IT'S ALL ABOUT THE SEXES

Mrs. Chicken. That's all we know her by. Foghorn Leghorn is being carried by her. Literally. How many times do the little ladies take care of us big slobs?

Just analyze the expressions. (I resisted saying foul expressions). Rooster's in trouble or plum tuckered. Whatever the reason, he can't carry on. He sorta reminds me of the la clippers trying to chase the fluid Suns around the court to stop them from burying threes last evening. Mrs. Chicken could have perhaps kept up better. What did they do with their three days off? Oh, well. At least she's there to save the day for her big guy.

In her face we can detect no anger, no pain, no disappointment in her man. She's just there to help. To serve her man the only way she knows how. Will he appreciate it? Nope. He's a man.

In his face, we can see his mouth agape. Probably in the same way he keeps her up at night with his snoring. But he's totally spent. He's oblivious to his surroundings. He's like every one of us guys without our gals. Useless.

To all the Mrs. Chickens out there--thanks. Thanks a lot. We can never repay you. We can't remember. We can't stay focused long enough. But mainly we can never admit.