Theres a man in Authorsden married to a Mean Warrior Woman, he deserve anything bad he got by saying..."I do"
Ain't that right my bad cheese cave smelling brother?
Getting married is a serious business which one should no take lightly, but like Law’s life sentence we don’t have the right to appeal.
Oh Miranda, Miranda, in some marriages the right to remind silent is not a right but you better.
Don’t blame the Coors beer, it hasn’t nothing to do with it, I am just back to my porch, my cooler and my rocking chair after being forced into the Sunday’s rags to attend the wedding of Marty’s older daughter.
Don’t tell him I said it but that is a hell of ugly child that one, and finding a volunteer to married her should had been a strong persuasion applied from the part of Marty or his shotgun was in the act somewhere.
As it was, Joe’s Barolo wine had got his tongue loose and spilled the beans that his dear Martha missus said not to repeat to anybody which of course he did, about Marty’s older daughter Lucille getting knocked by Bernie Jr, the son of our owner and barman of the Royal Promenade Billiard’s Lounge, after Lucille’s mother, Gertrude, had him drunk like sailor ashore after six months at sea without the smell of a feminine tail for many nautical miles.
Discretely, they said, she rode shotgun by the door of the girl’s bedroom until the act was consumed and snores told the story about the fallen soldier on his post and perhaps a smile on the daughter’s face. Oh whatever!!!
As my missus was still fuming I thought that it was safer to make myself scarce and go to my dominions, my beloved porch, where I sat on the rocking chair after carefully putting down the cooler, loosening my tie and getting rid of the shining black shoes that seemed ten numbers too little.
I thought I could hear ten relief exhalations coming from my toes.
Putting down the Coors bottle from my mouth I caught sight of the cheeky orange cat that had started to sit on the backyard facing me from ten feet, like an unblinking scrawny Sphinx miniature.
So long he didn’t bother my beer, I certainly won’t bother him.
Him? Well I supposed that it was a him, not a she, but those days of political correctness better talk about it being a cat, a creature, or a “it”…that’s safe.
But those unblinking eyes were really started to piss me off.
One of these days I should have a serious talk with this picayune tiger about boundaries and how impolite is to look, uninvited, people in the face before being formal introduced to each other…
Oh! to hell with the cat!!!
Our little church, a former bowling alley going bust was ample enough to accommodate both sides of the island for the groom and the bride cheering followers, curious onlookers, party crashers and our own breed of hecklers which Marty had zeroed on early, giving each one of them a few painful ear counter clock turns as a warning to wise up and don’t spoil his beloved daughter’s wedding.
If you never been married…for your sake, don’t!!! keep drinking the milk but please, don’t buy the cow; now, if you are married or has been, you know that what you know is what your missus want to know, and what your missus know is none of your business.
I am very happy that way, because knowledge comes with all kind of troubles and if you don’t know nothing, you can’t give yourself away, but open your mouth the dumb way and utter, “say what?!”
That’s what we, and we only include Joe and Manuel, were sitting pretty on one of the church bench making a mental bet about who was the one from the line of the dames of honor or the one with the boys support team will faint first.
I had already picked a sure candidate at the end of that line, which was already perilously leaning back and forth and that:
a) falling forward would have a falling dominoes effect that would knocked cold the unaware preacher, or
b) would fall backwards knocking off a big candelabra doing some collateral damage on the folks lucky enough to sit on the front bench.
As it was, I lost my mental bet when a pipe skinny lady of honor went down without leaving her place, like an accordion going home.
I turned to look at Joe’s face and was meet with a wide and odious triumphal smile of one that just had won a mental bet. Two can play the game.
As for Manuel, his back propped against the wooden bench rest, he was rigid stiff, even after so long wait and with eyes closed, that if you didn’t better would have thought of a meditating Mexican-American Buddha or a dead one, but he was taking forty winks alright.
Somewhere in the back a hungry toddler looking at so much deep, and when I say deep I mean deeeeeep cleavage from very well equipped ladies in the milk dispensing department, the brat remembered that it was lunch time and let a sudden wail of hunger that took someone by surprise because we could heard clearly a denture hitting the floor like a Nascar heap taking off from the wall.
I said that our church was a former bowling alley? Well, those people in front were lined like bowling pins, with the only difference of ex-Marine Marty, the father of the bride towering over everybody with an expression on his face that could be from worry, or apprehension, with a little of “don’t get me started” and plenty of “better it is over soon or I will be the round INCOMING!!! one.”
Bowling alleys are by design build with a low ceiling and plenty of lights to make the oversized room to feel more steel-mill warm and Turkish bath scented by sweating worshipers patiently waiting for the show to start.
Manuel had not moved and Joe started to get restless as he began to shake a leg like a happy dog, Little Manuelito, parked at the end of the bench, seemed fascinated by the teetering dude in front, maybe he was doing his own bet as to which side he would coming crashing down.
The maiden of honor that had passed out had come mighty quickly up after someone must have shoved some salts up her face, most probably that fouling great invention called ammonia which would wake even a two days dead fish.
Looking slowly around I noted that the natives were getting restless by the increasing vigor they were fanning the air in front of their sweating faces, as I said, this wasn’t a high roofed cathedral, not ever a reasonable you can’t touch the ceiling little church, it was…a former bowling alley!!!
With people crammed on and assorted kind of pews and benches (which don’t even the Salvation Army would accept) the ambiance was screaming trouble!!!
My eyes caught a sissy wedding planner by the entrance door; all dress up in pink, not less, giving a nod to our faithful Mrs. Butcher sitting on the little wooden pipe organ which needed to be CPR pedaled to start breathing music, which would become out of tune like a musical yo-yo as the fat lady legs started to get tired.
The butcher’s wife when at it with the zeal of a single-minded paramedic trying to put life back in a dying patient, as she launched “Here comes the bride” which was supposedly be coming guided by her father which was wrongly standing about the preacher, like a cat eyeing a mouse ready to take off.
Maybe he knew something we didn’t, or it was a new way to give your daughter away; anyway, the music was on and here they came though the big double doors from two alike limousines, and when I say they I mean they, like in plural, because there wasn’t only Marty’s daughter wrapped in a white wedding gown with yards and yards of the stuff trying to camouflage the fact of her swallowing the Goodyear blimp by the size of her stomach, but from the other limo came what only could be considered a wrong picture in the mirror with another bride, this a scrawny one, that also had swallowed a Goodyear blimp of her own with yards and yards of stuff trying to cover the growing bun in her oven.
Then the mystery was revealed, Marty’s daughter Lucille was trying to hang from the arm of her grandpa, Marty’s father, that had never got a daughter to lead on the church floor.
I supposed that the father-daughter honors for Marty were left to be with the younger daughter.
With them were Lucille’s mother Gertrude, my missus, Joe’s wife and Manuel’s, like the supporting cast of the Valkyries (but without the horns) they being the force that had set the things rolling.
When the other bride, supposedly too late for her wedding or too soon, depending on her booking, arrived to the door, we all could see that her father wasn’t other than the hapless Deputy Sheriff wearing his uniform, seemingly more hapless than ever after being dragged to “church” by his beanpole of a battleaxe wife that, we knew after the fact, had the same idea of Marty’s Gertrude and got her scrawny daughter not so artificially inseminated by the “you had not a chance Junior”
We could see the head of Bernie that stoically sat there on the first bench with that menacing candelabra (he was half the size of mean Marty) with a suffering in silence wife by his side.
Well, everyone there, at the entrance, wanted to move first towards the preacher as the butcher wife vigorously belted the music about the bride’s coming with a volume turned a couple of notches up trying to drown the increasing verbal abuse fired by old hand experienced wives on the war path.
I caught a glimpse of Joe’s wife kicking the right shin of the Deputy Sheriff like she was trying for a field goal from the fifty yards line, and that my friends make me to start laughing.
I, definitely, shouldn’t have laughed at all.
Because my missus send me an angry telegram with her eyes and like I had poured gasoline on a happy and gentle fire, it became a roaring one of tangled legs, arms and yards and yards of white stuff between.
Then was when Marty went to the rescue of his little ugly Lucille, grabbing anything from anybody and tossing it or them aside as the brides kept on bouncing over the human pile trying to gouge each other eyes.
Three patrol cars with unsuspecting invited cops to the wedding being crashed-on, appeared to make thing…worse.
I had stopped laughing, and I was looking at the bouncing brides on top of a wedding melee.
And we got married in Las Vegas! No not a drive through, but the preacher was so drunk on his arse that he could not even stand up long enough to get through the short, and I mean short ceremony. We were laughing alll the way back to the hotel.... You sure have an expressive knack of telling those tales and keeping the readers laughing.... God bless you...
Ho, Ho! You sure go to some very fine weddings, Brother!! And me and Mean Tall Woman got married in a bowling alley, too, in a casino, in Lake Tahoe. Now we live in our nice deep dark cave, and we still eat cheese - all day long!!
The Wholly Book of Doo-Doo-Rot-on-Me is adult satirical humor featuring adult language and adult content, and the work is a parody of the Old Testament Book of Deuteronomy.
