Wedding Commentary

As far as skeptics go, yours truly would be considered a skeptard. Look, I was married for 13 years. Most of those years were wonderful. We had sex pretty often, too. As I attended a recent wedding ceremony amongst a crowd of pissy-eyed ladies, I struggled to keep from blurting “Ha!”

I’m a horrible person, doomed to die alone.

Seriously, this is an ancient custom, right? The speech around how the ring symbolizes marriage because there is no beginning and no end is nonsensical. There certainly is a beginning. Once signatures hit the marriage license, it’s on, motherfuckers. Ends? A realm of inevitable destinations, including divorce and death. I say replace the wedding ring with a horseshoe nipple ring. There’s definitely a beginning and end, with an unforeseen middle.

The bride and groom wrote their vows. I can’t remember if my ex and I did that. Probably. There’s a template that is followed for these:

  1. State how your life sucked before him/her. It didn’t. You simply have not bungled this relationship beyond repair, yet.
  2. Talk about how he/she came into your life. If you claim your god did this, I will smite thee. Your imaginary friend had some extra time between plagues and decided to arrange and watch a little human porn? How cute.
  3. Proclaim how this person is your end. Basically, you’re promising to never mix with another tab A or slot B, no matter how much alcohol is involved. This is silly.
  4. Say, “I do,” and hope the strength in numbers thing applies to your marriage and not the number of divorce lawyers needed to resolve the mess you’re going to make.

All right. All right. Calm down. A little skepticism is good for you. Judge me to be a godless, loveless asshole. Nailed it.

The party afterward is nice. See? I’m not all Donnie Downer. Think of all the fixin’s. You can play fun games like:

  • Which fork do I use for this?
  • Can you pass the butter balls? Heh, heh. I said “balls.”
  • This champagne tastes like Coors Light without the taste. More like Macadam Light.
  • Fuck, I dropped my napkin again. Oh, well. I’ll use the tablecloth.
  • What’s in the candy tin? Ooh, pink chocolate baby nipples.

Then there’s dancing. I noticed how “The Alley Cat” and “Hokey Pokey” have morphed into “The Cupid Shuffle” and “Stanky Leg.” Lovely. The father/daughter dance is always a bit creepy. Why’s Dad so emotional? If he’s happy, is it because he can finally get her off his auto insurance? If he’s sad, is it because she’s marrying someone just like him, which means he’d better keep his little girl’s room ready?

You wanna know a memorable thing about my wedding? My wife passed out. Yup. I was more of a gentleman then. I caught her and set her down lightly without pointing and laughing. She was only out for a few seconds. I’m confident it was her immune system giving her “what the fuck did you just do” allergic reaction to committing herself to such a sarcastic prick, who hates camping and loves Monty Python.

Anyway, yes, the wedding was nice. Sure beats a funeral. I mean, there are no chocolate baby nipples at funerals.