Today, I’m off to a wedding. The pitcher/outfielder and first baseman on my softball team are getting married. So — assuming I’ve recovered from my illness enough to not infect the wedding guests with the bubonic plague — it should be fun.
(And in case you’re wondering, yes, it’s a co-ed team. Our ‘first baseman’ is really a… well, a ‘first basewoman’, I guess. Or ‘first baseperson’, or something. Guh.
Dammit, I’m all about this PC shit, but it just looks wrong in baseball lingo! She plays first, all right? You get the point.)
Anyway, it promises to be a good time. And it has the double secret-nil added bonus of being not-far-away, but still hotel-room-worthy. Which might have more to do with the open bar at the reception than the half-hour drive it’ll take to get there.
Either way, count me in. There are few things in life that are better than ‘someone else’s wedding’. You eat other people’s food, drink their booze, dance on their furniture, and then have sex in their bed. It’s like being a gigolo. Or a babysitter. Or that plumber I called last week.
(That’s the last time I ask a gigolo to recommend a plumber. And my pipes are still squeaky. Which may or may not be a euphemism at this point. Whoo.)
Anyway, the only thing better than sex at someone else’s wedding is sex at your own. And not just because it’s the last sex you might ever have, either. Am I right? Back me up here, married men.
I remember at our wedding, the newly-named missus and I disappeared to our room for two and a half hours. Yeah. We weren’t having sex, though. No. She wanted to open wedding presents.
(I thought I could still get her, though. I slipped into the bathroom, stripped naked, and tied a red ribbon around my ‘package’. I slinked back into the room and said:
‘Honey, I’ve got a wedding present you can open.‘
She looked at me, tsked, and said:
‘Pfft. I’ve seen that. But I’ve never had a gravy boat before!‘
‘Til death do we part’, this goes on. Just peachy.)
So, that’s where I’ll be this Saturday afternoon — spending a half-hour in church, so’s I’m allowed to drink and eat and drink and dance and drink and collapse the night away. If somebody could wrap a religion around that, I might get back to church more often. That’s my kind of service, baby. Hallelujah.Permalink | 1 Comment