A Wedding Story

Undoubtedly, more will follow in the "Wedding Story" genre. For now, there is this, the first installment.

I love weddings. Lemme say it again for the deaf kid in the back... I LOVE WEDDINGS! I adore the macabre family dynamics, the elaborate costumes and the utterly bizarre food combinations foisted upon the paying audience. I adore wedding culture. Cursed with a genetic disposition towards meddling and dogoodery, I have frequently found myself ass-deep in wedding bliss, shunting weighty, bloated confections of sugar and lard from inadequate kitchens to hastily draped tables in homes and halls. I have directed photographers and caterers, and on more than one occasion, engineered impressive last-moment wardrobe adjustments to bridal gowns using nothing more than a mouthful of tacks, spit and wads of human hair. MacGyver could masturbate for hours just thinking about some of this shit.
The pageantry is a draw, sure. But it requires a certain masochistic streak to do it all more than once. Or twice. You get screamed at, threatened and sobbed on... and that's when things are going well. There is always the inevitable mishap regarding food temperature, unqualified religious personnel or absent future spouses that adds a certain toxic shimmer of additional drama, especially if one has been up for over 40 hours baking an emergency wedding cake for the happy couple. But those are often the best weddings. The engorged, bedazzled and be-girdled guests all kind of become a greasy blur after a while. A left-hook from the bride is forever. <3

Soonishly, a friend and former love will be taking the "next" step in this great game of growing up, and will marry a man that she has dated for a respectable length of time whom she is suitably enthralled with and they shall engage in activities becoming to a young, beautiful couple. My role in all of this is to be crafty when necessary and to maintain heroic stoicism when in the presence of people who may know that I used to fancy her. It's wrong to love a bride, if you aren't the one she's marrying. I don't know why, but it is. I've made the dress I am to wear, I'm working on a "meaningful" gift for the happy couple, and I am in the final stages of constructing their "cake wall." (Or at least, the support for said wall o' cake.) I bought a "well played, old chap" gift for the groom. I've lent supportive ears to the bride as she fretted over wedding traumas and frustrations from the thousands of miles that separate us.
I'm doing my part, (playing my part) to ensure that she has the best fucking day of hideously ill-advised revelry that money, blow-jobs and empty promises can provide. But when that day comes, inevitably, I will join the ranks of innumerable others whom I have watched from various ceremonial vantage points over the years, with a fake smile on my face, a polyester dress not quite hiding the sweat trickling down my ass, loving, and losing, a bride.


Fun Fact of the Day!
Hitler wasn't actually a vegetarian. The "false fact" of his eating habits arose out of a Nazi doctor recommending a meat-free diet for Adolf. He apparently followed it religiously... except when he wanted to eat an entire pig or some other ruminent. Then, shit got meaty. Reeeealll meaty.