>>> Edited For Content
By staff writer Mike Forest
July 6, 2005

No one would be surprised if I ended up dead in a ditch. Even Miss Cleo would have seen that coming and she’s a fake bitch. My friends actually thought I met my watery doom one night last summer and spent an hour dredging the mini-moat next to the apartments we were partying at. Where was I? Long gone. I started walking four miles back to my apartment without a cell phone or any cash. Kasper fell in the two-foot sludge. I thought it was pretty funny.

If you just skipped the top paragraph, I’ll summarize it for you: Me dead in a ditch=no surprise. On the other hand, what would surprise people is if I got married.

No. I’m not getting married. Go change your shit-stained pants. I was just creating a clever segue. (Shut up, it was clever.) One of my first columns on my old LiveJournal was about friends of mine getting married, and it’s time to revisit the subject because this shit keeps happening. Too may of my friends have apparently lost their minds in the last few years and decided to tie the noose…I mean knot.

“Stand up in someone’s wedding? Can’t I sit down? I don’t want to go out of my way for this. It’s your entry into 'til death do us part' hell. I tried to talk you out of it.”

YOU PEOPLE HAVE TO STOP DOING THAT SHIT!

You’re my friends. Stop pursuing misery. You know how you hate to watch a guy slit his wrists right in front of you? …Well I do. You’re killing me with all that talk about vows and flowers and shit. I don’t want to hear about your so-called “happiness” anymore. Happiness to me is like the Easter Bunny and the Michael Jackson Trial verdict: I don’t believe in it. Do NOT invite me to the wedding. I won’t come.

Wait. Open bar? Fine, I’ll come, but I’m warning you: I’m going to be drunk and strung out on a Fear-and-Loathing-type cocktail of narcotics just so I can get through it. AND I get first crack at the bridesmaids. No, I’m not kidding. Those dresses have to be good for something. They may as well be covering the carpet at the end of my bed…or the back of my car…or the floor of the janitor’s closet. I’m not too picky.

A friend of mine is getting married in August. (Yes, I already tried talking him out of it. I even tried kidnapping him and putting him through Chinese water torture.) I have an excuse for not going to that one: I have to fly to Atlanta that weekend and can’t make it. He knows that. For one thing, he’s supposed to be at the same meeting but for some reason getting married lets him off the hook or something stupid like that. He called me up to get my new address in St. Louie anyway, insisting on sending me an invite. I appreciate the gesture, but….

Wait. No I don’t. I don’t appreciate the gesture at all! Dave, if this is just some ploy to get a gift, you had better hope that you’re registered at the dollar store that’s staffed by people who speak good American English, ‘cause otherwise you just wasted 38 cents or however much postage is these days. (What do I look like, a mailman? I didn’t fucking think so.)

Either you’re fishing for a breadmaker or you’re rubbing my face in the fact that I can’t go to your wedding. I don’t like anything rubbed in my face unless it’s some big ol’ titties. Is the wedding invite made of titties? Didn’t think so. The only thing that is even remotely as soft and comforting is that damn tissue paper.

Why is that tissue paper there? Apparently, various parts of the wedding invitation aren’t supposed to touch each other. Some parts of the package are better than others and supposedly everybody knows it but me. I hate that shit. It’s classist and stands for everything that I’m against, like babies in the military and senior citizen voting rights.

Allow me to drop some knowledge: in the hierarchy of wedding invite parts, the invitation itself is really the lowest of the items. It’s like the English majors or street sweepers. Sure, it’s usually the biggest and fanciest part of the whole thing, but think about it: that’s the part that you have to hang on to. It’s your ticket in. Especially if you’re the “college friend” that none of the family knows. I hate that “who-the-fuck-are-you?” look. It’s almost as bad as the “you’re-that-table-of-college-friends-who-sit-in-the-back-and-get-drunk-but-hopefully-you-won’t-ruin-the-magical-moment-too-much” look. I hate that look. I get it a lot.

The RSVP card is the smooth guy of the trio. You just send him back and he make’s sure your name is on the list. He’s the guy most likely to be linked to the mafia or politics.

(Just for the record, I don’t know why I am attributing the male gender to pieces of paper. It’s either because the patriarchy rules or I’m a flaming homosexual. News at 11.)

The “best” part, or Hollywood-legendish piece, is the card that has the reception info on it. That’s where the party is going to be. The Collin Farrell of the bunch. If there is any fun to be had, it’s going to happen at the reception because Dancing + Drinking = Hooking Up with Bridesmaids. It’s a good combination.

The other thing that’s coming in those envelopes these days are those stupid MapQuest directions from Point A, the wedding, to Point B, the reception. Granted, I am one of the most directionally challenged people on earth, but since you’re reading this you know that I’M ON THE FUCKING INTERNET. I know how to use MapQuest. Save yourself some ink and leave that out of the envelope next time.

Another one of my friends told me just last weekend that I “have the pleasure of” standing up in his wedding next year. At first I felt honored, because that’s how the Red States told me I should feel. Then I thought about it a bit more and I felt pissed. Then I got drunk and forgot about my feelings.

Pleasure? You’ve got to be kidding. I hate that phrase “stand up in someone’s wedding.” Can’t I sit down? I don’t want to be going out of my way for this. It’s your entry into “’til death do us part” hell. I tried to talk you out of it. Why do I have to stand in front of a bunch of fucking strangers? It’s like they’re rival gangs getting ready to defend the block. I can almost hear the switchblades clicking.

So the point is, if you’re getting married, blah blah, I’m happy for you. Whatever. Now stop wasting my mailbox space and my cell phone minutes. If you put a tissue in the fucking invite, I’m going to use it to wipe my ass, you capitalist, classist shit for brains. If I can chill in a recliner, I’ll be in your wedding. You’re not getting a present from me, so don’t hold your breath. There had better be an open bar at your reception, and I’m sending you my dry cleaning bill. Now introduce me to that fine ass brunette bridesmaid. I’m in a hurry.

I gotta go find a ditch to lie down in after this.

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