I Am Very Bored at Your Shitty Wedding

HELLO, DEAR newlyweds. I am at your wedding typing this into an overpriced smartphone some dumb bitch at the Verizon store talked me into getting. Let me assure you that the monthly prices I pay are somehow not at all what she had promised me they would be. And yet I must pay them. For two long years. How is this legal? I don’t know. And yet, should I submit to my baser urges, drive back there, and punch her, I would have been the one to go to jail.

But let’s not make this about Laryssa. This is about you two.

The feelings that arise in me when I see you two together and happy is very nearly enough to overcome the knowledge that you will probably be divorced within a couple years. To clarify: thinking about your inevitable divorce is all that is keeping me from vomiting right now.

It seems a paradox that I should, on the one hand, witness bad wedding cliché after bad wedding cliché without end, and yet still be incredibly bored. That this is a surrealist mockery of a wedding should arguably amuse me, but without the enviable position of an outside observer, I lack that luxury.

This picture is a mind-boggling confluence of the things I am feeling and the things I am seeing.

For one thing, I know she is a vegetarian. For another, I know he is a vegetarian. But what I know above all is that I want some meat, you fuckers. I am beginning to suspect this vegetarian thing is a whole sham for the express purpose saving money by serving us that morning’s lawn clippings.

Now, how it is that she can be a vegetarian and still be so goddamn fat is a mystery to me. My experience with vegetarians is that they are a brittle twig-people forever fighting chronic fatigue, gasping that they might catch enough breath to condescendingly lecture you again regarding their stupid-ass life choices.

I admit there was much gasping after that first dance, but I believe it was less due to vegetarianism than on account of having to shuffle herself around as though the fucking sun had decided to suddenly begin orbiting Mercury.

I don’t know if I’ve heard so many outright lies in one day. “You look beautiful!” “You look gorgeous!” No. You look fat. You look gross. I congratulate the groom on marrying what must be a hell of a great personality. Is it a horrible dress? Perhaps it wasn’t, but then someone had to go and put it on her.

As a keen observer of women, of course, I know as well as anyone that horrifying women often have a hidden bonus: a hot friend.

Which brings us to the bridesmaids. Holy shit. First of all, they have forever ruined the credibility of the one aforementioned reason that any of us have for tolerating unattractive women. Secondly, it as though the garish nightmare-cloth that comprises their wholly insufficient attire is in fact designed to exaggerate the horrors of their flabby, misshapen bodies. Hello–Tim Burton? Do you read this blog? I should hope so, for I have found for you a new costume designer to enliven your increasingly disappointing cinematic excrement.

My companions on this journey of pain and boredom? I could scarcely tell you; some gaggle of dilapidated elders, it seems, of origins unknown. What brings them here? Whose near-dead uncles or aunts are they? Fuck if I know, or care enough to ask (I did, however, confirm that none of them are vegetarians). Thus far all they have really done is compare oncologists.

Throughout this ordeal, I have been in constant fear of a bingo game breaking out.

It is possible that they have made some sort of social overtones towards me, but I have been so far unable to detect (and thus rebuff) them due to the crushing, unholy pain of the soundtrack hoisted upon my ears by the godawful wedding DJ.

Stop and think for a moment of the motivations in life that would lead one to become a wedding DJ. One must assume a combination of a powerful motivation to entertain, and an incredible desire to be the center of attention and control, but coupled with only enough talent to emcee low-expectation family gatherings comprised mostly of drunk cousins and bridesmaids of a notorious profligacy born of sheer desperation.

This particular DJ surveys the dance floor with an aloof smarminess that could have no genesis but a thousand nights of watching drunken, doomed bridegrooms fall on their faces while attempting to breakdance.

Songs by Rihanna? By Kesha? All alongside the chicken dance? Could these choices be idiocy? Or… brilliance, of a sort? Each joke presented with the same incompetent confidence… each announcement enunciated with the same uncaring delivery.

Because more lights means more fun. Right, you smug fuck? Right.

How, I ask, do you regard a man like this? Do you detest him for his incompetence, or his self importance? Or do you admire and envy him for sinking to a level so low that he cannot hope but to reign over it supreme? I myself leave these questions to the philosophers, instead sneaking outside to shit on the hood of his van.

That mighty shit was the combined constipation of having to sit with these pathetic geezers and withstand the assault of that godawful music. It was a heaping pile of the godawful cutesy wedding vows. It steamed with the rotten stench of the misbegotten bridesmaid speeches and their baffling, impenetrable in-jokes about their hijinks during first-grade recess. And there were hearty chunks of the awkward, sweaty jokes told by the best man, whose drunken debauchery throughout the night would eventually reach such a point as to nearly exculpate the inebriated idiocy of the groom.

Lastly, it was a harbinger of the spoiled, stupid children that fat cow will frontpoop out in nine months, and the inane, protracted legal battles over their visitation rights once you two realize you each married complete assholes.

However, if I’ve one regret, it is not attending the event… no, oh no.

It’s the blender.

The blender I bought you.

I placed it wrapped onto the gift table when I arrived.

My one regret is that I hadn’t the foresight to shit into that, instead.

Happy fucking wedding, assholes.