Sunday last, at the traily-taily-end of my flu, whom I have named Doug, saint aardvark and I went to the Mall to exchange some pants I bought that didn’t fit. They were $20 pants when I bought them, but when I exchanged them for a smaller pair, they were $15 pants! So I got $5 back. How nice!
Then Doug said I could eat so we went to the Taco Bell in the food fair (not the weird one at the movie theatre) to celebrate. I ordered two delicious bean burritos because sometimes one is not enough. When the taco bell woman gave me my burritos, she said, “Would you like some sauce?”
“You may,” said Doug. He lit a cigarette. He always smokes when he has some time to kill.
“Yes, please,” said I.
“Mild or ketchup,” said she.
“Hot, please,” said I.
“We don’t have hot. Sorry. Mild or ketchup?”
She asked wearily, for though it was early in her shift, it was still a Sunday at the Mall and she would have to defend herself all day against people like me and Doug.
“Have you stopped carrying hot sauce?”
“No, we’re just out right now.”
“Ah. Mild then, please.”
I tore the packet open with my teeth. The mild sauce tasted like hamburger relish. But the bean burrito was good.
“Ketchup on a bean burrito?” said Doug, shaking his head.
“No kidding,” said I.
“Better not come back here again,” said Doug.
“Well, when you’re gone, I guess I’ll do what I want.”
Doug just glared. But he is right. And I probably won’t go back to Taco Bell until I’m in GOD BLESS AMERICA where the FIRE SAUCE flows like so much lava from VOLCANOES OF FREEDOM.