Before viewing evidence of this below, let me first state this:
I deserve —and seize— all credits for Nic Batum’s coolnesses under pressurization!
And now, the explainings: Acting on my invitation, Batum visited my home isle of Mallorca this past summer.
After a pleasant day spent on beaches and fishing crafts, I sensed that Batum was slightly unimpressed with the sights. Upon my inquiry, Batum responded, “Mallorca is great! But I weesh for something more . . . wild and colorful.”
Nodding, I later made arrangements for the two of us to dine at a tavern where Mallorca’s scarred and sea-toughened fishermen gather. While tapas were being served at our rough oaken table, I winked at the waiter. He silently laid a gigantic, razor-sharp dagger beside Nic’s plate and departed.
The Frenchman’s eyes widened. “What does this mean?” he asked, testing the blade of the dagger gingerly.
“Observe,” I replied. “These fishermen have been drinking, as is their wont. But now they quarrel over the matter of who is the finer author: Miguel de Cervantes or Alexandre Dumas. I can only pray they will not attempt to settle their dispute here.”
“But of course, it is Dumas—” Batum began.
“Silence!” I hissed, pointing. “And look!”
Seeing my cue, a swarthy seaman leapt to his feet. Wielding a medieval-looking mace, he cried, “Whoever says that Don Quixote written by Cervantes is not superior in every respect to the tripe written by Alexandre Dumas —e.g., The Three Musketeers— is a liar and a thief!”
You should have cast eyes upon Batum’s face! Seizing the moment, I thrust the dagger into his hand and whispered, “Prepare to defend yourself!”
And with that, I slunk from the astounded Batum and exited the tavern before my restrained laughter suffocated me!
And THAT, mi amigos, is how the prodigiously lanky Nic Batum was properly shriven and became a man. (Those who are still chary of my contributions, please view this taping at the 1:50 point!)