The Chronicles: The Great Pepsi Conspiracy
What's up, Chroniclers?
Got yer cup?
Okay, buckle up.
The Right Rev and the First Lady graciously invited the family over for gumbo, fellowship, and what was supposed to be a peaceful afternoon. Naturally, none of those things happened.
As soon as we arrived, the Right Rev proudly announced he owned only one barbecue.
One.
Now, I've known the Right Rev for a long time. This is the same kind of statement people make when they tell you they only have one fishing rod, one remote control, or one spare extension cord.
Visible? Sure.
But somewhere behind a shed, underneath a tarp, concealed beneath a false wall, and protected by a sophisticated network of decoy grills, there are at least six more smokers, pellet grills, charcoal grills, emergency grills, backup emergency grills, and what I suspect is a prototype developed by NASA.
Every conversation eventually turns toward grilling when the Right Rev is driving.
You can be discussing retirement plans.
"That reminds me of brisket."
You can be discussing world peace.
"You know what brings people together? Tri-tip."
You can be discussing dental surgery.
"You ever smoke a rack of ribs at 225 degrees?"
The man has a gift.
Most of the regular cast was present.
The Professor and Yoko were there.
The Commander and Mrs. Scrubbles attended.
The Hose Jockey and Mrs. Hose Jockey eventually arrived.
Moe and Winnie showed up with TP, the Trash Panda and his bride, Teddi from the Block.
We were also blessed by the presence of the West Coast Obamas and Mama Mae, who was looking fit as a fiddle and about twenty years younger than her driver's license probably claims.
Missing in action were Her Honor the Mayor and the First Gentleman.
Apparently they were returning from some political expedition somewhere.
I assume she was out there stomping around kissing babies, shaking hands, and collecting votes.
Mr. and Mrs. McRib were also absent and greatly missed.
The attendance sheet wasn't quite complete, but the laughter made up for it.
Of course, nothing generated more excitement than the arrival of the Hose Jockey and Mrs. Hose Jockey.
The Hose Jockey walked up to the front door, stopped, surveyed the perimeter, and refused to enter.
Mrs. Hose Jockey stood there waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.
Finally, Moe met them at the door, went back inside, conducted what appeared to be a tactical sweep of the property, returned to the doorway, and announced:
"All clear."
Only then would the Hose Jockey enter.
You know how firefighters are.
The house had not yet officially been declared safe by law enforcement.
Protocol is protocol.
Meanwhile, exciting news surfaced from the younger generation.
One of our grandsons, Second Lieutenant, and his girlfriend, who is also Second Lieutenant, (gonna have to figure out some new nicks, huh?) had discovered the Chronicles.
Naturally, I was thrilled.
An educated audience!
A future reader!
Recognition at last!
So I asked her if she'd read any of it.
"No."
"No?"
"No. I just looked at the cartoons."
Now let me get this straight.
She has a Master's Degree.
She's a Special Education teacher.
She is literally trained to appreciate educational material.
And after discovering several hundred pages of Chronicles history, legends, adventures, and questionable life decisions...
she looked at the pictures.
Apparently we're a comic strip now.
I spent years becoming a respected author only to discover my target demographic is people who flip directly to the cartoons.
The HB Junior contributed one of the greatest stories of the day.
A buddy of theirs, CK, serves as Director of Marketing for a very large, very exclusive, very expensive university here in Southern California.
The kind of school that's so prestigious they probably charge tuition just to walk past the campus.
Because of CK, HB Junior and the Crash Test Dummy frequently enjoy upgraded game-day experiences.
Last week they were walking toward the stadium when a student usher stepped directly in front of HB Junior.
"Student section is through Tunnel 21."
HB Junior stared at him.
Then gave him that look.
Parents know the look.
Teachers know the look.
Military drill instructors know the look.
It's the look that says, "You've made a mistake, and we're all about to learn from it."
"You young whippersnapper," she informed him. "I have children older than you."
To his credit, the kid demanded proof.
To his horror, she provided it.
Out came the driver's license.
The usher's eyes widened.
His soul left his body.
"Sorry, ma'am."
Now HB Junior had a new problem.
Moments ago she had passed as a college student.
Now she was a ma'am.
A MA'AM.
The poor kid tried digging himself out.
"You were in high school when my parents were in high school."
Not helping.
"I really should call you ma'am."
Definitely not helping.
Meanwhile, CK and the Crash Test Dummy were fighting for their lives, trying not to laugh.
To this day, Junior still hasn't decided whether she was more offended that she got carded or that she got promoted to Ma'am Emeritus.
At one point, the Professor and I were discussing plans for our upcoming voyage.
The Commander spotted us.
Unfortunately.
The Commander has a rare condition that affects many executives.
Any conversation occurring within a fifty-foot radius automatically becomes his business.
Before long, he was offering advice.
Suggestions.
Recommendations.
Observations.
Corrections.
More recommendations.
Mrs. Scrubbles watched the entire situation over the top of her glasses.
For married men, this is the universal warning sign.
When your wife starts looking over her glasses, you're about three comments away from receiving corrective maintenance.
Apparently the Commander has attempted to be "the boss" at home on more than one occasion.
Apparently those attempts have not gone especially well.
Mrs. Scrubbles' expression suggested she maintains extensive documentation.
The cruise discussion eventually evolved into what history will remember as The Great Pepsi Conspiracy.
While talking with the Porters and the Mileses, I learned several critical facts.
First, the ship offers unlimited complimentary soda.
Wonderful news.
Unfortunately, they're all Coke products.
This is what experts call a crisis.
Apparently I can bring one twelve-pack of Pepsi onboard.
One.
Now I don't know who establishes these cruising regulations, but clearly they have never met me.
One twelve-pack might last some people an entire vacation.
One twelve-pack might last me until we finish the safety briefing.
So I immediately began developing a supply-chain strategy.
I carry one.
The HB carries one.
The Porters carry one.
The Mileses carry one.
Possibly random strangers carry one.
Before long we'd have enough Pepsi onboard to establish a regional distribution center.
Then the Commander made an offer.
He would allow me to use space in his carry-on.
For a fee.
A fee.
We're supposed to be best friends.
Brothers.
Travel companions.
Yet somehow he's operating a beverage cartel.
When I reminded him that friendship should be priceless, he casually mentioned some limited-edition rubber clogs he'd been admiring.
Suddenly I understood.
The man wasn't helping.
He was fundraising.
Personally, I think the Commander may be just a tiny bit self-absorbed.
Just a little.
I mean, what about me?
What about my soda needs?
What about my emotional well-being?
What about my constitutional right to adequate Pepsi reserves?
Nobody seems concerned.
The one bit of truly good news is that F'now officially has a sitter.
The Second Lieutenants have agreed to watch him while we're gone.
The HB was feeling very reassured until Second Lieutenant Maddie's mother issued a warning.
Apparently Maddie has become quite fond of our furry little alarm clock and is considering simply keeping him.
Absconding.
Dog-napping.
Grand theft canine.
Whatever you want to call it.
Personally, I'm not worried.
Army officers may be accustomed to waking up early.
But F'now operates on a schedule developed by caffeine-powered lunatics.
By day three, Maddie will be standing in her driveway in pajamas, holding a leash, with raccoon-level exhaustion in her eyes.
"Please," she'll whisper. "Come get your dog."
Anyway, Chroniclers, that's all for now.
The gumbo was excellent.
The company was better.
The Commander is still trying to monetize friendship.
The Right Rev definitely owns more than one barbecue.
HB Junior is apparently both a college student and a ma'am.
And somewhere in America, a future Army officer is unknowingly preparing for battle against a tiny furry dictator named F'now.
Until next time...
You know what to do.
Drink 'em if you got 'em.
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