Coffeehouse Chronicles: Sin City and the Brother-in-Law Bribery Scandal
Whaddup, Chroniclers?
Ya got yer cup?
Well, we're out and about.
The HB dragged me to Sin City.
Actually, "dragged" probably isn't the right word when you're already halfway in the car before she finishes asking.
I like Vegas.
A lot.
For several reasons.
Reason Number One: The Godfather
I get to visit my godfather.
He's my closest living male relative, and unlike most people who get handed a title, this man takes the assignment seriously.
When I say seriously, I mean seriously.
The man wears black suits.
All the time.
Not sometimes.
Not for special occasions.
ALL.
THE.
TIME.
He sits at the head of the table.
A carnation is pinned to his lapel.
He slowly folds his hands in front of him.
He talks with deliberate pauses.
He gestures with semi-closed fists.
And he carries walnuts in his pocket.
Why walnuts?
Apparently they help communicate that he's not a man to be trifled with.
I don't fully understand it either.
The funniest part?
We’re approximately zero percent Italian.
Not a little Italian.
Not partially Italian.
Not "my great-grandmother once owned a pizza cutter" Italian.
Zero.
But after sixty years of commitment to the role, who's going to tell him now?
Not me.
You don't challenge a man carrying intimidation walnuts.
Reason Number Two: Royal Accommodations
The second reason I love Vegas is visiting the HB's oldest brother.
Now, I don't know if we're spoiled or if we're simply beloved, but every time we arrive, the treatment gets more ridiculous.
As soon as we pull into the driveway, things start happening.
Two freshly laundered white terrycloth robes appear.
Not ordinary robes.
Monogrammed robes.
With our initials embroidered on them.
Two chocolate mints magically appear on our pillows.
I don't even know where they come from.
I suspect somebody has a mint supplier.
And then our nephews emerge.
Dressed as bellhops.
Not kidding.
Green double-breasted jackets.
Bellhop hats tilted sideways.
Ready to carry luggage approximately 17 feet from the driveway to the guest room.
Meanwhile, my nephews materialized from seemingly nowhere.
One is getting luggage.
One is adjusting thermostat settings.
One is asking if we require refreshments.
One is probably checking wind direction and barometric pressure.
The HB's oldest brother keeps bragging that he's looking into premium valet service.
Buddy.
We're in the driveway.
If you hire a valet to move my car fifteen feet, we've crossed a line.
At that point we're not visiting family.
We're staying at Caesars Palace.
Reason Number Three: Future Billionaire Activities
I also like Vegas because I play blackjack.
Now, before anybody gets excited, let's keep expectations realistic.
I'm not exactly financing casino expansions.
Yet.
But one of these days I'm going to hit it big.
You'll know when it happens.
I'll try to keep it private, but there may be clues.
For example:
If you see me flying to Saudi Arabia for lunch on a Learjet...
Possible clue.
If I start spending weekends on a yacht in Monaco...
Possible clue.
If my coffee mug suddenly has diamonds embedded in the handle...
That’ll definitely be a clue.
The House Divided
The real reason we're here, however, is football.
We live in a divided house.
The HB remains faithfully devoted to the Silver and Black.
The Raiders.
The rest of us generally prefer teams that occasionally win things.
Pretty Boy Floyd follows the Rams.
Mrs. Floyd is a diehard Chiefs fan. Being from Missouri, she's legally obligated.
The Crusher, HB Jr., the HB Jr.'s brand-new husband, and Your Hero remain loyal to the Niners.
The Crusher's wife picked the Seahawks.
Why?
The uniforms.
That's it.
Pretty colors.
No strategy.
No family connection.
No lifelong loyalty.
Just: "Oooooh, those colors are pretty."
She gets a pass because she's family.
Family gets a pass.
The Pilgrimage
Every year the HB makes the pilgrimage to see her Raiders.
This year they're playing the Chiefs.
Which means the family rivalry meter is pinned at maximum.
Adding fuel to the fire is the KC Fanatic. The HB’s little bro.
Now this guy takes Chiefs football to a level that should probably require a permit.
I thought D.ing was serious about his 49ers.
Nope.
Kaboo is operating on another level entirely.
The man's definitely got Chiefs pajamas.
Chiefs slippers.
Chiefs coffee mugs.
Chiefs emergency preparedness supplies.
If Kansas City ever starts issuing driver's licenses, his will probably have an arrowhead on it.
The Brother-in-Law Rankings
Which brings us to today's biggest insult.
According to Kaboo, I am only his second-favorite brother-in-law.
Second?
SECOND!
Naturally, I demanded answers.
Who beat me?
Who could possibly outrank Your Hero?
Apparently it's Commander McCroc.
Commander McCroc.
How?
Simple.
The Commander bribed him.
Years ago, every time the Chiefs come to town, Commander McCroc always managed to have an extra seat at Sofi available for Kaboo.
An extra seat.
That's all it took.
Years of friendship.
Years of loyalty.
Years of storytelling excellence.
Beaten by a chair.
A single chair.
Who knew Kaboo could be purchased so cheaply?
Meanwhile, I'm over here apparently competing with furniture.
Life comes at you fast, Chroniclers.
Well, that's Vegas.
We've got Godfathers carrying intimidation walnuts.
Bellhops appearing in the driveway.
Valets being considered for residential parking.
Football fanatics preparing for battle.
And apparently a brother-in-law ranking system that can be manipulated with seating arrangements.
Just another normal family gathering.
Until next time, Chroniclers...
Drink 'em if ya got 'em!
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