Wednesday, November 25, 2009

The Key to Surviving In Laws: Enter the Dumbass

Once again, Thanksgiving is upon us, and I don't really have a lot to be thankful for. Then again, at this age, I thought I'd be fabulously wealthy, famous, getting blown by a different chick every night, and driving a Ferrari back to my part-time residence in St. Thomas.

Using the above as a barometer, I'm 0-5. But when we look at the real Thanksgiving, I guess I do have a lot to be thankful for. In the old days, we learned that Thanksgiving was the time when the Americans went hat in hand to those other Americans, you know, the folks that conveniently kept an eye on shit til we showed up, because we didn't have a lot of food. So the other Americans gave the new Americans some. And being thankful, as new Americans always were, they then proceeded to wipe the other Americans off the face of the earth. This incident is the perfect example of the old adage 'no good deed goes unpunished.' If only Tanto had known, he'd probably have let all the new Americans starve.

Anyway, I will be attending Thanksgiving at my in-laws tomorrow. I actually get along with my in-laws, probably better than my own family. Actually, that's not true, I don't even talk to my family, so it cuts down on the arguing dramatically.

My mother-in-law has four sons-in-law. Now, if I were ambitious, I'd try to be the best - kind of like my fantasy listed above (amazing how I tied that in, huh?) - but I learned from the Indians. Doing too much good is only going to get you fucked. You need to think about survival, first and foremost.

The first, and longest tenured son-in-law is Victor. Victor is one of those religious guys who practices it without preaching it. He helps the homeless, gives rides to tards, and otherwise helps people. Given the fact that I'm exceedingly self aware, and I know that I'm pretty self absorbed, attempting to top this guy is going to result in a lot of effort without the payoff. So I'm already at #2.

I'm the third longest tenured son-in-law, but I'm going to give the #2 spot to my brother-in-law, Harry. Harry, I think, is like me in a lot of respects. I believe he's self absorbed, but he has one major quality that elevates him to the #2 spot: he doesn't say a lot of stupid shit. I lose here, hands down. But it's closer than you might think.

I fall at #3. And this is exactly where I want to be. If you're #1, you're going to have people expect shit out of you. I do very poorly when people expect shit out of me, unless they expect to be disappointed, in which case I'm your man. At #1, you become the defacto patriarch, if there is no other, such as a grandfather. In our case, there are no grandfather's left, so the sons-in-law are basically the four men up for the position. I don't want that position. People scrutinize you, it opens you up to criticism. Victor can have it, cause I don't want to deal with that shit.

#2 is almost as, well, #two-ey, as #1. You're the patriarch in waiting. Essentially, you're on an extended audition. You have to think about everything you do, because people are going to remember, and boy-oh-boy, you're going to hear about it when you ascend to the throne. Plus, you're kind of the stunt double for #1. So you get the potential for all the responsibility, without the glory, of the crown. Fuck that noise.

No, number 3 is where it's at, assuming you're lucky enough to have a #4. And do I have a #4.

Enter the dumbass: Billy Bob.

How can I describe Billy Bob? He's kind of hickish. Not in that endearing 'kinda folksy and slow spoken' sort of a way. More in that 'I could see him attending KKK rallies' sort of a way. No, I'm not saying he's racist, he's never said anything of the sort, just trying to give you a visual here.

He married my sister-in-law in a fire hall. I have nothing against fire halls, but to give you a bit of background, I was drinking a can of Coors light (fuck off, it's all they had) during the ceremony. Why was I celebrating? Cause I knew the promised land was dead ahead. One of Billy-Bob's relatives was wearing an eye patch. An eye patch with a skull and crossbones on it. I'm dead serious here. This was like winning the in-law lottery, ticket holder: me. Did I tell you I was self absorbed?

Billy Bob fun facts:

He used to be a tree surgeon, but fell out a tree and went on disability.

He used to be a crack addict. He cornered my wife, at a Thanksgiving dinner once and told her this. I'm big on abandoning my wife when I sense an uncomfortable conversation coming. Like it's my fault I have a better developed spidey-sense than her?

He lived in a trailer.

He was short on cash - well, this is a constant thing - but always has cash for a tree stand, or a bow, or something completely and utterly useless.

He mentioned that he wanted to have sex with my sister-in-law (one that was not his wife or mine) during my wedding reception.

He wears black slacks and cowboy boots to every family function.

He got in an argument with the funeral director during my wife's stepfather's funeral. Right when we were supposed to take the casket from the hearse to the grave site. I don't think I loved Billy Bob any more than at that moment.

His wife attempted to divorce him via facebook. She got major ups in my book for that abortion of an idea.

His wife has kicked him out after finding correspondence with other women.

His wife has called the cops on him. I've always said 'It ain't true love til the cops show up.'

Basically, I could not create from scratch a better shit-bomb to be measured against. If he was any worse, he'd be in prison (and in fact, I'm waiting for him to admit he did time, hopefully to someone who is not me).

Let me be clear, at Christmas dinner last year, I had the choice of being seated next to a 400 lb tard with an oxygen tank or Billy Bob. I was happy I got the tard. I don't like being around him, because he's one of those guys that knows he's a fuck-up, but tries to be everyone's friend. And it just comes off as sleazy. Not that I don't appreciate sleazy, but the sleazy I appreciate involves low cut blouses and short skirts.

So maybe God screwed me out of my Ferrari, riches and fame.

But I'm thankful for Billy Bob. Compared to this fucker, I'm #3 for life, unless I go on a mass-murder spree.

Well, even that would show a little ambition and still keep me in my current position.

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