So I go to (and write about) a lot of weddings. Many of my friends paired off. At least to my Minnesota friends, my wedding is kind of a running joke.

(Scene: Some wedding reception luncheon thing)
Some Twins Fan: When are you going to get married kc? Hee hee.
Another Twins Fan: Oh, kc will never get married. Hee hee.
kc: When's the open bar over?

After seeing all the love going around, I realize getting hitched is honestly something I strongly desire. I think I'm ready, but I'm not going to rush it. That being said, my singlehood deserves an amazingly bitchin' sendoff.

I'm willing to completely revoke my rights to have a bachelor party for complete creative control of my wedding. That's right everybody, no strippers or weekend in Las Vegas for me. I'll trade silicone boobies and Red Bull vodkas for total authority over the cakes and flowers.

Instead of a limo, I drive off in the Batmobile. The wedding guests chase us in the General Lee, KITT, and the Mystery Machine.First of all, my wedding is going to be frikkin' huge. The people from all walks of my life: SDSU, NYU and CU will be in attendance. My future wife can invite her friends too, but my friends get all the good seats.

I'm (sort of) Catholic, so it has to be in a Catholic church. Maybe one of those cool ancient ones in Europe. Or maybe just an old castle with a moat…that can be lit on fire.

During the ceremony my future wife will show up before me and wait around for a while. By the altar, she wonders if I'll appear or not, but then all of a sudden CRASH! I swing through a stained glass window and kick her dad (who is dressed like a dragon) in the face and rescue my girl from his reptilian crutches. I'm wearing a Darth Vader costume and my bride dresses like Slave Leia (you know, Return of the Jedi and the metal bikini).

My groomsmen dress like Stormtroopers, but my best man looks just like Gandalf. The bridesmaids dress like various cartoon characters: Minnie Mouse, Catwoman, Jessica Rabbit and the villainess from Little Mermaid–there always has to be a fat bridesmaid for politically correct reasons. My mother-in-law can dress like Jar-Jar Binks. I get to kick her in the face too.

The priest is to be a talking skull (that is on fire) and at least two stories tall. When my future wife and I exchange vows and put the rings on, instead of kissing we put our rings together and a flash of green lightning strikes our hands–then we both disappear without a trace!

Then instead of a limo, I drive off in the Batmobile (the blue one from the 1960s TV show). People don't cheer, but the wedding guests chase us in the General Lee, KITT, the Mystery Machine, Optimus Prime and the car from Smokey and the Bandit.

After we cause uncanny bloodshed on the highway we arrive at the reception hall. Every waiter is a robot, or at least looks cybernetic. The centerpiece of the room is a Deathstar in orbit–but this Deathstar is fully operational!!! During the maid of honor's unfunny speech about sisterhood (or whatever girls talk about during their turn to speak about the bride) the Deathstar starts laser-blasting people I don't really like but invited anyway just so I could get a cool gift from them.

Instead of my best man telling embarrassing stories about me (hint: there are absolutely none), there's a 16-hour documentary about my life and all of my incredible achievements. If people complain, fall asleep or start getting restless they will be thrown into a full-sized Rancor pit and eaten for our enjoyment–don't worry, we'll pause the movie during executions.

During my triumphant movie we all eat ribs, BBQ chicken and side dishes from Famous Dave's BBQ and Famous Dave himself cooks for me.

In the meantime, my girl changes into a Wonder Woman outfit and I put on my Superman costume. Somebody needs to figure out how to do the spitcurl thing with my hair.

Then we'll have drinks and dancing.

There's an open bar. Pirate waiters serve free Jameson Irish Whiskey, Goldschläger or Mickey's Fine Malt Liquor (in either the traditional 40 ounce bottle or the exquisite grenade bottle). Everything else you will have to pay for. I'm not paying for your lame booze–you cheap pussies.

Everybody purposely dances worse than me and then everyone tells me I should star in a film called "Fred Astaire: Tap-Dancing Action Ninja of the Secondteenth Dimension." Of course, I will write and direct the movie too.

At the end of my party DJ Petey will play "Piano Man." Every dude drops his pants and sings along. I doubt there's a better sendoff to the "consummation suite" than hundreds of pantsless guys butchering a classic Billy Joel song. Of course, no women are allowed in the no-pants singing–that would be gay.

After the most amazing party of all time I bang my wife 253 times in one night. Her screams of ecstasy crack the foundation of our honeymoon suite–which is "Mr. Toad's Wild Ride."

Then we'll depart for our honeymoon at Valhalla, where I'll hang out with Andre the Giant, Babe Ruth, Steve McQueen, Ernest Hemingway, Bruce Lee and Hunter S. Thompson. They'll give me high fives and tell me my wife is hot.

My pre-nup is that if my wife ever cheats on me or doesn't do what I say, she has to sleep with either Pauly Shore or Dick Cheney. After that, I get all of her stuff and money while she has to move to Bismarck, North Dakota to be a lunch lady in my old middle school.

I'm still trying to work out the cake. I'm thinking it's made of live bunnies and instead of cutting it (which would be cruel), we use a vintage battle ax.

So what do you guys think? Pretty sweet, huh.

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