This is ground control to Major Tom

Attended my first wedding shower at work today, what the shit is that about.

If I ever make the mistake of giving up my backbone, logic, ideals, and everything I hold sacred and actually get married, I sure as shit will not tolerate the kind of things this poor bastard has to put up with. Although I can hear an audible crack as hopeful hearts across the nation break in unison, I would say easily about 99.5% of a wedding is idiotic and I refuse to participate. Sorry ladies.

First of all, the gifts. I don’t want any of that shit. Any of it. I don’t want pot holders. I don’t want a wok. I don’t want your fuckin Ikea bathroom set. Maybe it’s a female thing to want never ending piles of useless bullshit to fill up the void in the cupboards (read: your soul), but I am not interested. This dude today had to grin and thank someone for two cake-frosting spreaders. Two. They were different colors, that was the only difference. Are you kidding me? I have a deepseated and overpowering allergy to junk, and EVERYTHING you get at a wedding is junk. EVERYTHING. Every gift at a wedding should be either cash or flammable so as soon as the guests leave you can spend it or burn it. No matter what stage of your life, you should be able to move your every earthly belonging in the trunk of a Cadillac, and it should take you less than an hour to pack. Anything more than that, including placemats, gravy boats, and George Foreman anything, is superfluous crap.

Second, the advice. Shut up you stupid pear-shaped yammering shrew. I’m glad you’ve struggled through 27 years of marriage, Aunt Hambone, but I don’t care and the last thing I want is you squawking at me on this dark day. This is not your moment to shine, to dispense bits of shit you pretend are clever or appreciated, this is my time to think quietly about the mistake I’m making and resign myself to fate. Watching, judging, look at the baby, look at the baby. How the poor groom could stand up there smiling and demurring when he should have been jumpkicking every annoying ass person in sight was beyond me.

Third, the crooning. Crooning at a wedding should mean automatic ejection from the premises, like cussing at an umpire or punching a stripper. You’re not fooling anybody, you evil, embittered hen; I know the inner workings of your wicked mind. At best, you’re jealous and judgmental, offering congratulations while your heart curses them to suffer through the same decades of nuptial misery that you’ve endured. So shut up.

Also, planning shit sucks. I can barely get my self together to call four people to go to a movie, forget organizing catering for hundreds of people. Seating arrangements? Are you joking? Fuckers better bring a bag lunch and some lawn chairs to my shit. And you know there’ll be a cover.

I don’t know why I’m ranting about this, since it’s all academic anyway. I plan on dying alone under an overpass in Iowa before I hit thirty, reeking of malt liquor and broken dreams. Better to end up at the bottom of a Steel Reserve bottle than to be ground on down for decades by some nag with the authoritarianism of a prison warden and the romantic sensibility of Stalin’s embalmed corpse. I guess through some sort of cosmic transference I’m feeling all the fury that the poor bastard groom should be. He’s at home plugging in a new blender and sorting his Bed Bath and Beyond gift certificates, and I’m here fighting the good fight. Conservation of Resentment, it’s a fundamental law of physics.

Those whacky amoebas are definitely onto something with the whole asexual reproduction concept. I applaud you, bacteria, we could all stand to learn a little something from you.

I can sense that my fervor is making some of you nervous, so I’ll lay down the proverbial pen for the night. After all, fuck it. It’s not my neck in the noose. I’m still living wild and free, like a gazelle. A manly gazelle. A gazelle with huge fucking horns and fangs, the kind of gazelle that will rip a hyena in half and then go home and pound a sixpack. You know what I mean.

Off to SD tomorrow night. Southerners, plan your schedules accordingly.



One Response to “This is ground control to Major Tom”

  1. anonymous Says:

    Could not of been said any better!
    Your fucking awesome

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