5 Things You Did That Forced Me To Ruin Your Wedding
First off, I wanna say thank you. Thank you for inviting me to your wedding, thank you for being my friend, and thank you for hosting such a beautiful ceremony. Second off, I wanna apologize: Sorry for cold-cocking the best man in the jaw, sorry for burning the entire venue to the ground, and sorry for getting all of us -- particularly you newlyweds -- arrested.
No one wanted it to end this way. Least of all me. OK, least of all you, because you
got married, but even more least of all me, because I'm such a nice guy.
Things got out of hand fast, sure, but the important thing is that we all remember that this is all your fault. After all ...
You Had An Open Bar
An open bar is a source of great power that can be used for evil good or evil. When wine and whiskey flow like water into the gaping mouths of your friends and family, it can be a catalyst for warmth, love, and sharing -- or chaos, vomit, and nudity. When you invited me, you should've known right away what was going to happen.
Slow-Finger Joe knew what I was the moment he saw me.
I first approached your open bar with the fearful anticipation of a caveman paying homage to a mystical black space totem. Would it approve of me? Would I be accepted into its graces? How long could I keep it together so they would keep giving me Scotch? "Yes to all of those questions, even that last one, which can't technically be answered with a yes," the bartender's deep blue eyes told me. Then his mouth told me the same thing, with words. Then he slowly poured me a glass of cool and smoky Lagavulin, delicately adding just a single drop of fresh spring water to activate the flavor, all the while exuding the kind of patient expertise you expect from a bartender who calls himself Slow-Finger Joe. I drank deeply of that ancient Scottish elixir, turned to my left, and punched the nearest stranger in the face.
Luckily, I'm pretty bad at anything involving physical movement.
I know what you're going to say: "That was Toby! He was the best man!" Fine, but in my defense, he was right there, man, looking all smug and punchable in that stupid fucking suit. Luckily, Toby was cool about it, probably due to the fact that I punch like a croquet player. Toby simply rubbed his jaw, locked eyes with Slow-Finger Joe, and said, "This guy is cut off."
"Yes sir," the bartender replied. I winked at Slow-Finger Joe. He didn't wink back. The point is, I had to steal my drinks from the open bar for the rest of the night. Which is also your fault, since if you're going to be preventing people from drinking, you should've hired someone who's a little faster on his feet than Slow-Finger Joe.
You Made Everyone Look So Hot
Society designed fancy clothing for one reason, and that is getting ourselves inside each other as quickly as possible. Collars are supposed to make a man's neck more prominent and regal, like that of the noble frog, which invites more fuckin'. A woman's dress is meant to call attention to her boobs and encourage access to her crotch-hole, to allow for easier fuckin'. A man's pants have a zipper in the front, so his belly-slug can flop out majestically, ready to shoot its fuck-fluid wherever that man dreams to leave a sticky trail of proto-babies. If this is grossing you out, you probably want to turn back now, because things are only going to get worse from here on out.
I wandered your party, drunk on Scotch and also on the fuck-fumes emitted by every horny bastard and broad in there but mainly on the Scotch, until I met your cousin Stacy Marie Fitzsimmons, heir to the Fitzsimmons Industrial fortune. We danced and we courted as only drunk millennials can: snapping blurry selfies, shouting with inappropriate excitement about Taylor Swift, and bonding over what we're pretty sure is going to happen on Game Of Thrones, until finally we came to the mutual decision that it was time to escape to an upstairs room for some quick fuckin'.
Along with more selfies.
Up those steps we went, each creak a betrayal of our lurid intentions. Two, three, four flights of stairs we climbed, until we finally reached a hall secluded enough for our quick and sweaty congress. We inched down a darkened hall until, finally, we found our way to what appeared to be a master bedroom. And as we fumbled drunkenly with each other's weird-ass wedding clothes (how many buttons do my pants really need, J. Crew? How many?) we were both far too intoxicated with each other's desperate, frantic needs to notice a thousand blood-red spiders skitter out of the cracks in the walls. Nor did we notice when the lights began to bleed.
In fact, we didn't notice anything weird at all until the room was literally completely full of ghosts.
You Had Your Wedding In A Haunted Mansion
"Whoa!" Stacy and I shouted in unison, seamlessly transitioning from awkward humping to fighting over a blanket to shelter our shame from ghost-eyes.
"WE ARE THE FUCKGHOSTS. YOU HAVE SUMMONED US WITH YOUR MEDIOCRE FUCKIN'," One of the ghosts bellowed. He was wearing a three-piece suit and a bowler cap, so I assumed he was the leader and from whatever era it was that people could still wear bowler caps. The '80s?
"Mediocre?" Stacy said.
"Right?" I said. I side-eyed Stacy and gave the ghost a knowing look that seemed to say, "These amateurs, eh?" The ghost made a face.
It made my eyeballs shit themselves in fear.
"YES. MEDIOCRE. YOU WERE BOTH EQUALLY MEDIOCRE. NEITHER OF YOU HAS ANY RIGHT TO COMPLAAAAAAIN."
I said, "Surely one of us had noticeably better form than-" But the ghost interrupted me, because ghosts are rude.
"THIS HOUSE WAS ONCE MY HOME. I AM SIR ERNST FUCKWELL, A LEGEND OF EXEMPLARY FUCKIN'. IN 1821, IN THIS VERY ROOM, I HELD THE FIRST MEETING OF THE FUCKERY, A COMMUNITY OF NOBLE FUCKLORDS WHO WOULD SPEND THEIR LIVES FINDING YOUNG, DEDICATED FUCKERS AND TEACHING THEM THE FUCKING ARTS. OUR GOAL WAS TO SPREAD THE SECRETS OF MASTERFULLY MIND-BLOWING FUCKS ACROSS THE WORLD."
"Wow," Stacy said. "I've never heard of any of this."
"I COULD TEEEEEEELL."
"I have!" I said, winking at the ghost. Fuckwell rolled his eyes.
"YOU DEFINITELY HAVE NOT. STOP SAYING THAT. TONIGHT, YOU HAVE USED MY BED, AND YOU HAVE INSULTED MY MEMORY. TONIGHT, BECAUSE OF YOUR SHAMEFUL FUCKING, EVERYONE AT THIS WEDDING PARTY ...
He paused dramatically but held it too long and it became silly.
... WILL DIE!" he eventually finished.
They probably seemed weird at the time, but your invitations turned out to be spot-fucking-on.
Then all the fuckghosts used their fuckghost powers to transform into an army of fuckmonsters. One was a gigantic crocodile with butthole-eyes and rows and rows of evil boobs along its back. Another became a scorpion with an erect penis on the end of its tail and dozens of flaccid penises hanging off its face. A third ghost exploded into a billion spiders that were probably weird and sexual in some way, but I couldn't tell because they were all so tiny. And then there was one that looked just like Jared Leto. Right at that moment, I realized that it was time for that thing -- the thing that ends up happening at every formal gathering I get invited to. A naked demon fight.
You Didn't Have A Religious Ceremony
I don't mean to be judgmental, but listen: If you had been devout Christians, there would have been crosses, holy water, and probably a crossbow or two that I could've used to battle the demons. But because you're secular, there was nothing -- not even a ceremonial sword or an heirloom blunderbuss. And because of your hippie leftist politics, you didn't even have any guns. This is why at exactly 11:45 p.m., I ran into the dinner hall buck-naked, holding antique furniture above my head, screaming that everyone needed to watch out for spiders.
To be fair, that advice is pretty sound.
I was wrong. The spiders were just there to watch. The real danger was the lizard-bear that started ripping off everyone's left arm, smacking them once in the face with it, and then moving on. I'd say he did the most damage. After him was the 40-foot millipede where each leg was a dick, and each dick ejaculated thousands of tiny dick-insects that flew around dick-slapping their victims to death.
"Nope!" -Cracked Legal Department
Stacy and I did everything we could to stop the slaughter. But all we had was whatever weapons we could improvise out of broken beer bottles and fancy chairs, and neither of us are in particularly great shape or even super good at fighting demons. In just a few, short, blood-soaked hours, we realized that everyone at the wedding party had been killed by fuckghosts.
You Don't Trust Me As Much As You Should
As I stood there, knee-deep in a slurry of human-being parts, broken furniture, and spilled booze, listening to John Legend's "All Of Me" squeaking mournfully from battered speakers and some dead DJ's iPod, I realized that this was all our fault. The demon warriors, led by the ghost of Ernst Fuckwell, were leaving, but we chased after them.
"Wait!" I shouted. Fuckwell turned to face me. In his demon-form, he's a gigantic crab with kangaroo legs and thousands and thousands of buttholes. Not the most intimidating, but effective at chopping people in half and, presumably, pooping.
"You can't do this. You can't ruin my friend's wedding. There has to be some other way."
"THERE IS NOT. YOUR FUCKING WAS ATROCIOUS. THE PRICE MUST BE PAID."
"Then take me!" I cried, like some kind of goddamn movie hero.
Ernst Fuckwell seemed to ponder my suggestion. Then he turned to the other fuckdemons, and they powwowed for a moment. Then he returned in his ordinary fuckghost form and told me his decision.
"WE WILL UNDO THE MASSACRE. THE PRICE WILL BE STEEP."
I waited. And kept waiting. Fuckghosts have no sense of timing.
"THE PRICE IS YOUR DIGNITY. YOUR FRIENDS WILL LIVE AGAIN, BUT IN EXCHANGE YOU MUST MAKE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE. AFTER YOU TRAVEL BACK IN TIME TO THE MOMENT YOU TOOK THAT FIRST GLASS OF SCOTCH FROM SLOW-FINGER JOE, YOU MUST PUNCH THE BEST MAN. THEN YOU MUST VOMIT ON SOMEONE ELSE -- SOMEONE UNCOMFORTABLY OLD. FINALLY, YOU MUST SPEND THE ENTIRE WEDDING CEREMONY SCREAMING THE LYRICS TO 'FREE BIRD.' THEN, WHEN THEY TRY TO KICK YOU OUT, YOU MUST KICK ONE OF THE SPACE-HEATERS INTO THE DRAPES, SETTING THE ENTIRE BUILDING ON FIRE. IF YOU FAIL TO FULFILL THESE TASKS, WE WILL RETURN AND KILL EVERYONE.
"Fine," I said bravely. Then the fuckghost worked his fuckmagic. The world around me swirled, and after a blast of light, the wedding was back. The shredded bodies were gone, replaced by happy, dancing wedding people. The shattered furniture was repaired. John Legend's "All Of Me" was playing proudly. With grim determination and a heavy heart, I approached the bar. I turned to Toby, the best man, and smiled sadly.
"What'll it be, Mr. Sargent?" Slow-Finger Joe asked me.
A glass of fate, Joe. A glass of fate. With a splash of responsibility and self-sacrifice. And ice.
So anyway guys, I apologize for ruining your wedding. But now, now that you know the whole story, hopefully you'll agree that I made the right choice, or at the very least holy shit what the hell is that?
There's nothing behind you, because you're still in the back of a cop car. When you turn back around, JF Sargent has kicked the door open, dived out of the moving vehicle, and is running into the woods. Follow him on Twitter and Facebook!
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