Two years ago today you foolishly took my hand in marriage. During that time, I have been unemployed twice (1, 2), made the neighbors suspect I was beating you when yelling “You dirty bitch!” at the computer while designing a website, bulged a disc, come home late countless nights from post-hockey drinking benders, continued my subscription to numerous smut magazines, remained dutifully absent from all Monday night plans during the fall/winter to drink with my Fantasy Football buddies, run down a couch on the highway and have never let you hold the television remote in my presence. In short, you are still the amazing, accepting and funny person that I fell in love with. I appreciate you more with each passing day and I love you like Extreme; More Than Words. Happy second anniversary, honey. It is the cotton anniversary so let us pick up some righteous sheets that make it feel as if we were sleeping atop a marshmallow cloud. Or we can save our money and just get a giant box of maxi pads. Those commercials make them look like giant stingrays swimming. Just saying.
Long time friends of the MB, Mark and Sara, ruined their lives over the weekend. It was a lovely affair that went down at Red Rocks Amphitheater and included Apache Wedding blessings, drinking and revelry, an R2D2 cake and a slide show of two fine-looking youngsters in love. I understand your reasoning for putting us at the Smashing Pumpkins table, Mark, but were we at least considered for The Clash table? I must know. Congratulations (again) from the wife and I. Enjoy England/Scotland/Ireland. Also, something for you to consider.
The wedding transpired with much happiness and celebration. It was a surreal whirlwind and I do not recall many specific moments from the night. I know the ceremony seemed intimate and joyful, I had a few dances with the wife, I chatted with many guests (although I am sure I missed talking with a lot of them), I saw an amazing sunset and I think I even had a beer or two. Overall, it was an awesome party and I think most everybody enjoyed it; even if they had to drink Tommyknocker all night (it was an open bar, cockbags, you should be happy you got anything at all).
We left for St. Lucia early the next morning. While the wedding was a surreal whirlwind, the honeymoon was the exact opposite of that. We relaxed and slept on the beach, hiked in the jungle, water-skied, snorkeled, drank rum and Piton beer, ate like fat Midwesterners at the Sizzler, won the resort archery tournament, shopped in Castries and generally forgot about our lives for the week. Some notes I jotted down over the course of the holiday:
- Coconut milk is a natural laxative not a fun liquid to go in every alcoholic drink.
- Archery yields crazy friends from Scotland and bottles of Bounty Rum.
- Dr. Feelgood bears striking resemblance to a shirtless, unkempt Bob Marley and likes to walk in traffic near the Castries Public Market.
- Saffron is not “super cheap” in St. Lucia; it’s just turmeric.
- I could eat my body weight in fresh mangoes and bananas.
- Fire ants attack cute wives with an affinity for tropical flora and fauna.
Thanks again to everyone who came to the event or sent us their well wishes and condolences. You people are the cream in our Twinkie.
Tomorrow, after a sixteen month engagement, I will officially be ruining my life. Immediately following my nuptials, the wife and I will be honeymooning at the Rendezvous Resort on the rum and banana rich island of St. Lucia. There will be drinking, eating, swimming, snorkeling, archery, dancing and a general malaise about life for the week. The MB will be on hiatus until I return in mid-July with a wife, a tan, a shaved head and a perpetual hangover.
In a few hours, the debauchery that is my bachelor party will begin. I have been drinking water and eating horrible, greasy foods all morning in the attempts of proliferating a preemptive strike against the alcohol I will consume in the next twelve hours. Go Karts will be driven and crashed, wild game such as buffalo, elk and quail will be eaten, liquor will be drunk and my cousin, fresh off a plane from Kuwait, may end up either in detox or in traction.
Congratulations to Jake and Heather who exchanged nuptials over the weekend. I was bestowed the honor of best man and spent the weekend drinking with Bostonians (hearing “Fucking Jeetah” and “This yeah the Sawks are gonna win it,” on numerous occasions), viewing schizophrenic artwork, discussing the many uses for Marshmallow Fluff and watching Neal dance like a homosexual club kid full of horse tranquilizers to “Mambo Number 5.”
Weddings are usually a source of happiness as two people commit and celebrate their love in a timeless ceremony amongst family and friends. They are also a great place to get rip-roaring drunk and fuck some shit up. While I never bit a man’s finger off or smeared cake on a child, I do recall (vaguely) one wedding I attended six years back:
- The ceremony is in North Denver and I ride shotgun to it with my cousin, Monica. Both of our mothers asked us to show up early and help set up chairs. We arrive 20 minutes late because we had to stop for cigarettes.
- Monica and I sit in the back of the church during the ceremony. We make crass comments about a family member’s hairpiece that gives him the appearance of a young Ringo Starr. Joking in a British accent I say things like, “Hey Paul, it’s time to get married.” Monica giggles like a dirty schoolgirl.
- The ceremony ends and Monica and I realize the reception is at the Boettcher Mansion (near Golden, Colorado) nearly an hour away. We stop off at a local liquor where nobody speaks English before we begin the trek.
- In the car we consume alcohol as quickly as possible. We smoke many cigarettes.
- We arrive at the reception hall drunk. I sign the guestbook “Matt.” I have neither a gift nor a card for the couple. Nels and my sisters have saved us seats at a table. We proceed to the bar.
- The greatest combination of words in the English language: open bar.
- After dinner, our table is trashed and loud. Family and friends shush us. Nels and I decide to get a round of anisette shots for the table for the toast. We drink all the shots on the way back to the table and wind up going back for more.
- The anisette shots are downed at the table before the toast even begins. Then we remember they bring around champagne for the toast. Instead of waiting for the caterers to pour us the bubbly, Monica acquires a bottle for our table and after taking the first pull proclaims, “No more for me. I have to drive home.”
- The garter belt ceremony begins. Nels, my sister’s date Mike and I stand in the pit of bachelors. The garter is flung and gets caught in the chandelier. Nels and I decide to hoist Mike up to the chandelier to grab the garter. Our sense of balance is skewed thanks to the alcohol we have consumed and Mike nearly falls on his face as we lift him. Mike braces himself against the chandelier, grabs the garter and jumps down. The chandelier swings wildly for about five minutes. My grandmother looks scared.
- I see a hot girl and ask my Mom if I am related to her. She says no. I ask hot girl to dance. At this point I have spilled liquor all over the front of my shirt and smell like a brewery but she says yes anyway. As we dance I sing the song being played loudly in her ear. When the dance is over she informs me she is leaving and gives me her phone number. As she walks away I blurt out, “You look hot, and I am not just saying because I am drunk.” (Days after the wedding I forget the number is in my pants pocket and it gets ruined in the wash).
- Reception ends late. Nels and I talk the bartender in giving us some beers for the road. We smuggle them out in our dress pant pockets.
- Monica ends up chauffeuring most of our drunken table home. We get stopped at a sobriety checkpoint. Luckily, Monica is now sober and passes with flying colors. I sit in the backseat staring blankly at her walking a straight line with an open beer in my hand and the remnants of a twelve pack at my feet. Much later I realize that if I were asked out of the backseat we would have all spent the night in lock-up.
Friday. Work late to complete a corporate Flash presentation that nobody will pay attention to. After work, I play in a coed softball game where my team wins 26-4 and the opposing team’s third baseman catches a ground ball with her face and breaks her nose. Immediately following the game a torrential downpour ensues and I sprint to my car leaving my glove on the field. I roll to Tyler’s house and play College Football with the Slushy Gutter Crew. At one point in the evening Tyler pours me either a glass of bourbon, scotch, or whiskey. I drink it and proceed to kick his ass with Virginia Tech 30-14. On the way home I realize that I left my mitt on the softball field.
Saturday. I attend my company picnic and run the corporate Flash presentation I put in long hours over. Surprisingly, people pay attention, laugh and tell me good job. After the presentation the picnic continues at a nearby park with a luau theme and a pig roasting. I eat heaping platefuls of swine and mingle with coworkers. Jake, Gay Joe and I make fun of some pasty kid trying to play football. We call him “Mary” and giggle like the dickheads we are. Joe tells us about his homosexual encounters the previous evening. Hula dancers many years past their prime shake their asses for our amusement. I volunteer to dance with them, throwing my inhibitions into the wind like Kevin Bacon in Footloose. I perform a dance with pom-poms and hip gyrations. I win the grand prize in the company raffle (a $200 gift certificate to the Flagstaff House). After the picnic, I attend a lesbian wedding with Monica, Kaye, Aaron, Nels and Kerry. We quickly become the obnoxious drunk table at the reception. A plant is passed around and the recipient of said plant gives a toast. A diverse blend of people wishes the couple well including a militant lesbian with an attitude problem and a sexual predator with disheveled hair holding a kid that liked to hit people in the face. I share my toast with the happy couple, lifting my glass and saying, “Here’s to eating pussy.” They laugh hysterically. I love the lesbians and wish them the best. We roll to Monica’s crib for a nightcap. I discover Kaye does not like playing drinking games with me. Monica informs me she picked up my softball glove up after our game. This makes me happy.
Sunday. I wake up at noon with a screaming hangover. I pour a glass of water and take ibuprofen. I watch Panic Room on digital cable. I drink a glass of water. I make a trip to Home Depot to buy some sandpaper and steel wool. I drink a glass of water. I strip paint for four hours. I drink three glasses of water. My Mom calls and invites me to dinner. I drink a glass of water. I drive to my parents house and eat spaghetti and garlic bread for dinner. We discuss home improvement. I go home to play a game of College Football. Colorado State beats Wyoming 21-3. Nels picks me up for our hockey game. I tally a hat trick and an assist. I drink seven glasses of water. Mark throws a shoe at Nels’s face. I come home and take a shower. I go to sleep. If anyone asks me what I did this weekend, I will say, “Nothing.”
An insane amount of freelance work is keeping me busy as of late. So busy in fact, that I went into more debt to buy a new computer. A Power Mac G4. Go ahead. I will wait while you clean your shorts. I love it and the freshly connected broadband internet access (you should see how amazing porn looks on this monitor). I am anticipating a good return on the investment. Is there anyone out there that needs for a web designer?
Nels and Kerry’s wedding went off without a hitch. Many spirits were imbibed, there was more dancing than an MC Hammer video and good times were had by all. I performed my best man duties with dignity and ease and avoided a candelabra incident during the ceremony thanks to my cat like reflexes. The minister unknowingly bumped a candelabra that would have sent the quaint chapel up in flames if it had not been caught. I did this without anyone in the congregation noticing a damn thing, moving swift and silently like a ninja on a rooftop.
My hockey league’s regular season ended last Sunday. I was second in points on the team with 8 goals, 12 assists and 9 penalty minutes. We ended up in fifth place and are battling the fourth seeded Fighting Trout this Sunday. The Slashing Hyenas are in prime position to take it all the way to the house. My dreams of hoisting the Bladium Cup over my head and drinking in the sweet nectars of victory as I skate around the former airplane hangar in my jock strap to a cheering crowd of seven people will hopefully come to fruition.
After this past weekend I know what Keith Richard’s liver feels like. I and ten other hell-bent drunks braved the wilds of North Federal Boulevard and Steamboat Springs for a bachelor party weekend that sent Nels off to the marriage gallows in grand drunken fashion. I will spare you the details of the weekend as they are mostly laborious accounts of steak dinners, inebriated heroics and vulgar slurs of grandiose proportions directed at one party-goers Denver Bronco Cheerleader sister. The entire bachelor party shared their sexual fantasies surrounding said sister during the entire weekend (mostly after the aforementioned party-goer threatened to inflict physical harm). My favorite fantasy included Shannon Elizabeth, a sponge and a bathtub filled with hot fudge. It is amazing what three motivated drunk people can accomplish on Howelsen Hill with a crude sledding device. Me being one of said drunk people (and just in case someone in Steamboat Springs law enforcement or my mother is reading this) all I will say about the incident is this: that was some fun shit.