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Writer's pictureSmoke Bandit

Wedding Bashers

Weddings: nobody wants to be at them, nobody wants to be in them, and nobody wants the gays to be allowed to have them.  I'm just joking about the gay part, did you laugh a lot?  And that's the end of my post, thanks for reading! 


I'm just joking about the post ending, did you laugh a lot?  I can't overstate how much I need your validation regarding my sense of humor so please keep that in mind in the comments section and tell me how much you're laughing.  I hope it's a lot.  I remember being thrilled upon graduating high school, not because it's a remarkable achievement, despite what city school districts will tell you, but because it meant that I could never be coerced into attending another dance because there wouldn't be another dance.  I was free.  Dances were over.  Kaput.  College doesn't have dances, other than the no-pants-dance, amirite, fellas?!  College!  No, I was in a long-distance relationship throughout my collegiate career and had to room with a chubby-to-obese but definitely obese-leaning, autistic, four-eyed weirdo who only left the room to replenish his Froot Loops stash and whose favorite movie was Beverley Hills Chihuahua 2, but a guy can fantasize about college no-pants-dances. 


There aren't corporate dances that your boss pressures you into, insisting that you go in drag and be his date, even though that wouldn't be the worst thing in the world because I look amazing in a black dress and heels and a touch of rouge.  Let me rephrase: I think that I would hypothetically look amazing in a black dress and heels and a touch of rouge because I've never drawn the curtains, put on a Madonna Pandora station and had a dress-up night after a couple glasses of red wine when Becky is out of town on a lonely Friday night. 


My YMCA won't make me rent a tux and mingle awkwardly with other workout enthusiasts while Pitbull songs echo through unnecessary and bewildering exercise equipment.  I'm not a member of the YMCA or any other gym anyway, but I couldn't think of another adult thing so I decided to go with the Young Men's Christian Association, another similarity I have with the Village People.  My excitement about dances being out of my life forever soured when I realized that weddings are adult dances and everybody that anybody has ever met has at least one wedding and you have to be at all of them.  You have to, don't even try to get out of it because if you don't show up, multiple women and zero men will be very angry with you.


I don't think I'm exaggerating here when I say that being a wedding guest is always the worst thing to happen to me.  I've seen Schindler's List and I am still confidently declaring that going to a wedding is an assaultive, oppressive nightmare to which no human being should be subjected.  The only benefit is that these heinous events have honed my sneaky ability to find creative places to hide for long periods.  Continuing with the surprising and inappropriate Holocaust theme of this paragraph, I turn into something of an Anne Frank after dinner, scurrying in the shadows so that I don't have to pretend to enjoy bouncing to Beyonce songs next to drunk girls who are secretly despondent about their dismal lives and hate the bride out of jealousy for finding a putz who is desperate enough to marry her pedestrian ass before they could find a putz who is desperate enough to marry their pedestrian asses. 


Under threat of becoming single again and having to meet a new loose woman each weekend and do exactly what I want with all of my time, I was recently required to be in attendance of a wedding that was unfortunately one of those two-night destination calamities in the always-raining Adirondacks.  Have you ever been to the Adirondacks when it's not raining?  Noah once vacationed there and was like, "Yeah, this is lots of rain."  Because he's the ark guy.  That's a Bible joke from my upcoming Christian-themed stand-up routine that I'll be debuting at the Orchard Park Young Men's Christian Association.  Some might claim that it's just bits that I've ripped off from Evan Almighty, and they would be absolutely correct because what other religious movie am I going to rip off?  The Passion of the Christ?  There's only, like, two funny scenes in that whole thing.  They're side-splittingly hysterical, granted, but there's just not enough material there to support a three-hour set. 


I slogged through the ceremony and then dipped into my usual bag of tricks to escape the dance floor dummies, spending a concerning amount of time in a bathroom stall, "pretending" to poop for an hour *wink* and then wandered to the bar to kill more time because I knew the bartenders wouldn't pay me any attention since I was instructed not to dress as a hot girl in a black dress and heels and a touch of rouge that evening.  This is when I took the only two photos that I captured over the entire weekend.  Most folks take a billion pictures at these things so they can post them on social media to try to lure a putz into marrying their pedestrian asses, but not this non-cross-dressing guy, why would you insinuate that I'm obsessed with cross-dressing?  I strictly take pictures that matter and the Asian man that I spotted across the bar mattered.  He mattered so much. 


You're wondering why this Asian man captivated me so intensely, but I'm not going to tell you because that's my business and you shouldn't be reading my diary like this.  It's a betrayal of my privacy and more importantly, my trust, and I find it sickening that you have violated me like this.  No, I took two stealthy photos of the dude because he looked exactly like that Japanese villain in the third Ninja Turtles movie who got his fruity little hairdo cut off by Leonardo's katanas.  I screen-grabbed him and inserted the image above but I have been told that I can't post the shots that I took of the Asian man at the bar for comparison because it would be "wrong" and "maybe illegal" so you'll just have to trust me that he looked exactly like that guy.  It was breathtaking.


So, all in all, it was a rainy waste of a weekend and I am not single and stop inviting me to your freaking weddings, you reets.  "Reets" is a new insult term that I'm trying to make happen.  It's short for "retards." Did you laugh a lot?

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