What kind of guy did you think you were dealing with?

Posted: June 7, 2013 in Uncategorized

I meant besides a kinky-minded misanthrope who idolizes Groucho Marx in an entirely unhealthy way.  You can call bullshit until the IRS owns up to being reprehensible dickholes, but I try to set myself apart from your average window-licking sack of fail.  It’s the least I can do.

Ok, maybe I came out of the gate a little bit hot for the back-issue involving the whole “getting married” schtick.  It’s not like it’s over a month overdue or anything.  Like a college assignment, bitches, I’m about to pull greatness out of lateness.

Write that down.

Oh yeah, I’m waxing vintage and putting this edition in the tone of Van fucking Wilder.  Deal with it, I did it better for longer, and that is what she said.  Where was this going again?  That’s right, getting married.  When people tell you that you won’t remember your wedding day– they’re actually not kidding.  May 4, 2013 was a complete blur.

Wet yourselves accordingly.

My memory issue has nothing to do with this.

Yes, I tried valiantly to catch a buzz while rocking that violently sexy tuxedo– but nope, it wasn’t in the script.  My liver decided to go full-on Wolverine.  From 9am in the morning, I continually worked on my flasks of Jameson– and whatever other boozoholic beverage that found its way into my hand.  No, my BAC had nothing to do with my inability to really recall the wedding day.

Perhaps I should clarify, this isn’t selective amnesia– nor is it a case of everything being a blur because it went by so fast.  Yes, the day flew like Charlie Sheen after a visit to Scarface (and subsequently dragged ass in the closing hours before the after-party pool party at the hotel).  Out of all seriousness, the common wisdom is disturbingly correct: unless you entirely fuck up something major, you won’t remember much about your wedding day.

Sure, you’ll have hundreds of pictures (unless you elope, but that’s another rant entirely)– but they’ll tie your memory to flashes, and that’s about it.  You’ll have a great and wondrous feeling that all was well, and you’ll recall anecdotal tidbits of stuff you liked best– kind of like how the priest was making fun of us during his homily.

One thing keeps getting brought back to my attention:  how “classy” everything was.

Who the fuck did you think you were dealing with?  My TKE nickname is The Godfather, and I have people from other fraternities kneeling before me and kissing my skull ring when I show up for Homecoming.  I exaggerate not, this has happened on more than one occasion– and sometimes when I first meet them.

Was there any question that everything would be classy, in spite of being on a budget?

TKEs once, TKEs twice...

This was not my idea.

Now I realize that most people have DJ’s, lights, and other various “staples” at their receptions, but I had a better idea– that almost didn’t happen.  However, we lucked out and got ourselves the best goddamn jazz/swing band… well… anywhere within even an unreasonable import radius.  How am I so connected that I can book Razz and Friends, you ask?  I’m the goddamn Godfather.

Dear me, it would seem that I’ve gone more Juggernaut than Van Wilder.
Oh well, apparently I’m having difficulty keeping character on my own blog.  It happens to the best of us.

Anyway.  Back to the band— Razz is my former jazz instructor (who taught me the proper way to improvise on the sax) and he not only has diabolically obscene amounts of talent but is an active musician in and of his own right.  We had a band– where the youngest was in her 60’s– that was utterly fantastic.  That’s right, a big band primarily comprised of septuagenarians.  Couple that with a cake/champagne reception and an amazing sunny day, and apparently that equates classy.

Oh wait.  That’s right.

Put me in a tuxedo, and automatically things around me develop an aura of classiness.  Throw in some phenomenal musicians, champagne, and a lot of people having a great time…  seriously, people, why is everyone so damn surprised that our wedding was a classy event?  Just who did you all think you were dealing with?

Unplug.

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