For the past month or so, I have made it a point to meet fellow dining companions here on Mondays and Wednesdays. Not because the 50-cents-an-ounce steaks (weighed by Abdullah The Butcher in full public view!) and similarly priced Hump Day tacos are worthy of a thirty-minute trip from my home base in Vaaa Beeech. Rather, I've used Batterson's as a twice-weekly trading post for exchanging Cee Dee Ares, fanzines, monies and occasional kind words. Standard GOP (Gunther Operating Procedure) has called for either fibbing about having had an early dinner of roast beef and mashed potatoes or fessing up to my postponed satiation (i.e., "I'll grab something later from Jack Off In The Box").On this late afternoon, however, my stomach was screaming (to paraphrase Homer), "I'M SO HUNGRY, I COULD EAT AT BATTERSON'S!!!" Thus, instead of ordering my usual 22-ounce Natural Light draft (why no Bud on tap, Bat Men?) or Mike's Soft Lemonade (water and citrus, for not-so-hard days), I told the overeager waiter (Hey pal, this ain't Rush Limbaugh at Freemason Abbey's best table; it's The Gee Man squeezed into a booth with ripped seat cushions!), "I'll take five tacos, por favor." SamboneRNRMF, who had eaten in double figures on a previous visit, went for a three-pointer plus the free throw. Holly stayed in the paint with a quick two, while Bil (who had sold his other "L" on eBay for a tidy sum), lest he be called for traveling, didn't want the extra dribble of loose meat and opted for a backdoor cut of hamburger. Technical fouls were committed by all players; ground beef for the tacos would not be ready until twenty minutes ticked off the clock, and hamburgers had been given a one-game suspension (much like they'd later receive at MacArthur Center's Burger King [!], when the patties ran off the [food] court). Bil With One "L" tore into the referee, loudly exclaiming that he "DIDN'T WANT ANY FUCKIN' TACOS!!!" His second T-violation drawn, Bil With One "L" was ejected from Batterson's hardwood and left to find a pick-up game elsewhere. Shorthanded by Bil With One "L"'s exit, SamboneRNRMF, Holly and I played "D" triangularly - hand checking the sweltering heat (read: no central air conditioning) with makeshift fans (menus and Dollar Tree portables worn around the neck), blocking thirst by sipping dos-dollar margaritas y aqua and stealing glances from the wide-screen near the lavatory.
As the final seconds melted away from the overhead timepiece, our respective meals were no-look-passed to us. Shells seemed tastier and crunchier than those found at conference foe El Taco De Bell. The meat was thinly spread a la Vegemite on Men At Work's sandwich and unseasoned like Chilli Willi The Penguin. Onions were plentiful in the mixture, as if to induce extended weeping post-Lady Die's funeral. Cheese was possibly a blend of Sargento-style monty jack and beddar cheddar. Lettuce and tomatoes were fresh as a sixty-ano-old muchacho flirting with a barmaid of veinte y dos. Salsa? Banished from the sport like Roy Tarpley with one-too-many substance abuse cases. In its place was a ketchup bottle filled with Texas Pete hot sauce. The only one in the arena, this communal substitute salsa was shuttled from sideline to sideline with the same fervor as a collection plate at Rock Church. SamboneRNRMF and I drove to the lane with our eats like Shaquille through the L.A. Clippers front line, but Holly just couldn't take it to the hole and fouled out with one finished taco. I would score ten shells-and-cheese for the night (and could've gone for fifteen, had I not been triple-teamed by a tight wallet), and my teammate SamboneRNRMF had a respectable eight points and twenty-four cheese-fry assists (who said he was a ball hog?).
Holly and SamboneRNRMF have talked about retiring from the league since this contest, but I predict they'll be back and forth with their holas/adioses like Magic and Michael. As for me, I've got SamboneRNRMF's assist mark to pique my interest in continuing with B(atterson's)-ball. Until the next tip-off, amigos...
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