Why Can't They Solve the Chocolate Strawberry?

Sunday Day 2 - continued

I wake up to a text from the Quad Queen. The Motherflusher-in-law has hit a Royal in their kitchen table poker game.

I wonder if it is the only Royal I will see this trip.

I have barely dozed off, but it's go time - I have everything perfectly timed to meet up with my cousin and family at exactly 4:00pm, and then Funkhouser exactly an hour later. My timing, however, is slightly off because it takes 35 minutes to get an Uber from the Plaza to where I end up - the Flamingo.

Stupidly, I gamble on the shared ride option. I end up with three nice, but rookie, Vegasers. They ask questions like 'where's a good buffet' and 'which restaurant should we eat at' and 'which is a good bar'.

They get dropped off first, and the driver has to make a u-turn on the Strip and work his way back. It is an interminable ride, and I feel terrible about being so late.

This feeling dissipates very quickly when I see my cousin and family camped out at an outdoor table under the spray coolers outside O'Sheas - with a couple of pitchers of beer on the go. They are not in any way put out - in fact, they are rather content. I start working on some contentedness of my own with a beer or two, and we have a really nice visit.

This is a 'last chance before the grandkids start poppin' trip for cuz, his wife, kids, and their spouses. I get in touch with Funkhouser and fortunately, he is not at all inconvenienced by the delay. Eventually, the fam heads off to dinner at Nine Fine Irishmen, and I head to the Paris Diamond Lounge, with them as escort.

There is only a minor glitch meeting up with Funkhouser. Tiny one. Very insignificant. Just that we are at different lounges, in different casinos. Well, wires will cross, you know, and it just gives me time to inspect one of the fine Paris men's rooms, and check on the state of their broadband communications infrastructure.

Le Internet ne marche pas.

I really only have time to shake the dew off the lily and lavez les mains - by the time I get to the Diamond Lounge Diamond Door, Funkhouser is there waiting. It's great to see him, and he's in a good mood, having managed to rub at least some fiscal salve on the wounds from the monetary beating he's taken early in his trip.

We saddle up to the Diamond Bar, where Freddie is presiding. Freddie is large, black, and tough. Freddie has a past that makes him tough.

I wish I were a Freddie, who can look like a badass while engaging in as unassuming an activity as squeezing the Charmin' and comparing to 'that bargain brand' at Walmart.

Freddie is out of my league, so I don't even try to engage. I just sit back and admire.

Funk and I get caught up, and I do an interesting (to me) experiment. My first drink is a Maker's Mark. Then I decide to try a Gentleman Jack, which I also rate highly.

However! Back to back, it don't know Jack. The Maker's is clearly a superior libation. Not by much, but I do like the Maker's better.

It's around six and Freddie pumps up the party atmosphere by plugging his tunes into the sound system. The volume level of the place goes up, and I'm initially annoyed - but later, realize that Freddie has some good music on that thing.

The Diamond lounge has a range of Diamond Nibblies - but I mostly leave them alone and opt only for a couple of Hindenburg-sized chocolate covered strawberries.

I have an issue with chocolate covered strawberries. You get this nice, big, fat, red, ripe berry. It's dipped in thick molten chocolate (with the berry at an angle, probably) which has solidified on the berry. It looks beautiful.

Tell me if this is you. You pick up the chocolate covered strawberry, and you hold it by it's fat end, and you take a bite, shooting for about half of the delicious contraption. What is supposed to happen is that you should bite cleanly through the chocolate, and the berry, and enjoy chewing it's deliciousness. You would then take a second bite, leaving the fat end and it's green handle to be discarded.

But what really happens - every fucking time - you bite that berry and your teeth break the chocolate. It breaks into shards, half of which fall on your clothes, and the chocolate on the second bite comes away from the berry, and it's all a broken, red, fucking mess.

Why can't they solve the chocolate strawberry??? Elon Musk, are you listening???

We're almost set to go for dinner, chatting, and having a good ole catch up. The lounge has a nice, happy buzz to it as does my brain from the deep pours. There's a funky as all shit song playing - this instrumental has stop start shout it out like James Brown rhythms going on that kick you out of the groove for half a beat, and then settle you right back in, like that cigar smoking baby hoppin' back in the crib. And, there's a kick-ass trombone going.

And all of a sudden, I know. I just know.

We get up to go to dinner, and I tip out Freddie with a couple of fives. He walks by, and I make my move.

"Thanks Freddie... hey, that wouldn't be... Fred Wesley would it?"

Freddie stops dead and looks me in the eye. His head turns a little bit, like he's not sure what he just heard.

"You like Fred Wesley???...."

I look at him and nod.

"I do."

Freddy nods, thanks us, and moves off.

Maybe there is just a little room for badass Flusher at this bar.

HEY-unh!