The Wedding Story Page #2

GROOM:
Shayna, how can you say that?

BRIDE:
You’re probably gay.

GROOM:
What?

BRIDE:
Oh c’mon, how many straight male floral designers do you know?

GROOM:
That’s what you thought I needed to be honest about?

BRIDE:
You didn’t even know I majored in Geography! Listen, if we’re talking averages here, most people don’t get married in Vermont . They get married in their one-horse hometowns that have WalMarts and bad zoning.

STORYTELLER:
What’s wrong with that?

BRIDE:
NOTHING. THAT’S MY POINT. MOST people do get married in their hometowns. MOST people cheat on their spouses or end up in counseling or sell everything they own to get into a lousy nursing home. Put that in your fairy tale and smoke it.

STORYTELLER:
No one’s smoking anything. There are children present.

BRIDE:
And God forbid we tell them what life is really like.

GROOM:
She’s got a point there. You’re opening yourself up for multiple class-action suits, Mister.

STORYTELLER:
Fine. I’ve had it. You want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, the whole enchilada, the proverbial hook, line, and sinker? Well far be it from me to give these little souls something to which to aspire.

BRIDE/GROOM:
Do it! Do it! (ad lib.)

STORYTELLER:
I’m warning you, it won’t be pretty.

BRIDE/GROOM:
We stand warned.

STORYTELLER:
I’m such a pushover.

(opens the volume back up)

Once upon a time in a trailer park not so far away, there lived a woman approaching middle age who drank a lot of bourbon, smoked a pack a day, hung out in places where they throw peanut shells on the floor—

BRIDE:
All right already.

STORYTELLER:
--and a young, slightly effeminate man who took it up the ass once from a fellow Eagle Scout, but since it only happened once when he was 17 and drunk on Kahlua, he still considered himself straight.

GROOM:
Hey hey hey.

STORYTELLER:
The woman and the man met in a bar one night where they got drunk and slept together afterwards at her place. Since the woman felt guilty about the one-night stand, she felt she needed to make a legitimate relationship out of the encounter to justify the sex, even though she really prefers black men. To stay deep in the dark closet, the man proposed to the woman, and since she’s 35 and, let’s face it, not getting any younger, she accepted his pathetic offer because it was a real ego boost to have snagged a hot stud eleven years younger than she, even if he does have the occasional problem getting a stiffy with her because he’s really gay. Although the man offered to plan the entire wedding with his best friend Steve, the woman insisted they hire a horse-drawn carriage to drop them off at the Airport of Vermont, from which they took six connecting flights to Las Vegas to get married by an Elvis impersonator. To celebrate, they showed up at the Star Dust Lounge, at which they bought all the bar patrons cheeseballs and Budweiser. When they arrived back home in Weehawken, New Jersey, the Groom, unable to suppress his inner self for a moment longer, took up with a drag queen from SoHo, and the Bride, realizing she’d never be a mother, consoled herself with vodka and Xanax and died of a somewhat accidental overdose three years later. The Groom, now 27, took up wearing cowboy hats and chaps, and made the unfortunate mistake of traveling to Wyoming on business where he was dragged to his death behind a 4x4 by a bunch of homophobic rednecks. The drag queen wrote a show about the three of them in which he played all the parts, won a Genius Grant, and landed his own talk show on New York City cable access.

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