Thursday, September 02, 2004

Hillbilly Weddun

(This was NOT written about any particular co-worker or aquaintance of mine. Instead, it is merely a humorous concept that dawned on me recently based on previous experiences and a sick sense of humor.)

A member of my work team is handing out wedding invitations to fellow co-workers. Now there’s a sideshow party that has absolutely no chance of ever having me signed in on the guest roster. Knowing this particular team member as I do, I am imagining it would be similar to a Munster Family Reunion with the types of people in attendance that you would expect to find on any episode of ‘Cheaters’. During the reception * festivities, I wouldn’t know whether to make small talk or toss spare change.

Just imagine the festivities. Their first kiss would undeniably resemble two catfish going after the same piece of corn. The first dance would be something to be aired on the Wildlife Network: “And now, the courting ritual of the North American Trailer Park Polecat”. The toast would no doubt be made over paper cups of tasteless orange McDonald’s drink from the reception “Open Barn”.

Why would you even consider inviting co-workers to your wedding anyways? Is your family and friend base so limited that you have to invite the person who has the misfortune of slaving beside you each day at your place of employment? You’d think you would want to leave this particular reminder of your ordinary pathetic everyday existence behind you on this, the first day of the rest of happy life together with your new bride. If your social life is this limited then instead of passing out invitations to your wedding, you should be handing out invitations to your public suicide. Wouldn’t that make for an interesting invitation read? “Mr. John Q. Biggletits and Ms. Alotta Cheesebeaver cordially invite you, on this most splendid of occasions, to our blessed public offing as we end our lives together in holy matrimony. Your presence is requested to help us celebrate this joyous occasion. BYOC (Bring your Own Cyanide).”

I would rather subject myself to a ritual chain stomping at the hands of Outlaw bikers at my wedding than share it the boobs who work around me. I bet spending my big day with rabid hyenas would be more enjoyable than spending it with immigrant worker Mohammed Omar who can utter maybe three words of coherent English and poor college dropout Johnny Boogermunch who would be lost trying to accessorize his cumerbund with his purple nail polish.

Furthermore, why the fuck is he handing them out as opposed to mailing them out as per normal accepted wedding tradition? Is it just to see the look in the eyes of the recipient as you hand them their invite as they twist and squirm worms in a heavy rainfall as they try to instantly come up with an excuse over why they will have to regrettably miss the festivities; their eyes rolling back into their heads like they were trying to calculate the 15% gratuity at a four-star restaurant. They must be a complete sadist to enjoy inflicting that kind of mental punishment on another living creature and then watching them suffer. It must be like watching a salmon flop around helplessly on a sandy beach slowly suffocating. “Oh…thanks. I, ummm…I, ahhh…oh, I have to…OH! I have my Quilting and Basket-weaving class at the community college that night. DARN! Wish I could make it though.” Poor bastard.

* Where this actual wedding reception would be held opens up a whole realm of possibility: the Banquet Room at ‘Vinnie’s Rock n’ Bowl’, or the Picnic Pavilion at ‘Crazy Curley’s Spud’s n’ Chicken’.


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