Are prisoners and weddings a good mix?
Dear Dale:
I got married recently. And because money was tight, we decided to use a state-run discount wedding service. Turned out to be prison labor.
It was a disaster. The usher who asked “chicks or dicks”? The organist who played “Hot Legs.” The minister who stared down my dress. The steward who drank my dregs. The server who looked longingly at my knife. The cook who turned tricks in cars. The MC with the swastika tattoo.
The food was disgusting. The meat had an odd taste. I was expecting ham. Turned out to be hamster. Especially bred for snakes. And the wine! Hard to enjoy your drink when you know it’s been stomped by the feet of convicts, most of whom are understandably reluctant to use the shower.
What’s worse, they behaved like boors. They picked their noses, coughed onto the food and answered every request with “fuck you.” One of them even threatened to shiv my grandpa, just because he asked for a napkin.
Another grabbed a knife and attacked a fellow con and, instead of the magic show we had been promised — most of which involved escaping from things — we were entertained by a cutlery fight on the dance floor.
Fortunately, the police were already there. Unfortunately, they got a bit too eager with the billy clubs and several guests were injured.
I still can’t get the blood out of my dress.
Another straddled my grandma, held a bottle overhead and poured wine straight into her mouth. To be fair, she didn’t seem to mind but my grandpa sure did. Especially after he caught them making out in the cloakroom.
The dance was dismal. Not only did the DJ refuse to take requests, he kept playing Love Stinks over and over again. That and Jailhouse Rock.
You won’t be surprised to hear that all the presents disappeared, along with several wallets, bags, coats and cars. Despite that, they were angry because I didn’t tip them. It was the worst experience of my life. Should I sue?
Signed,
I cried for a week
Dear ICFAW:
Absolutely not! What did you expect? Snooty Frenchmen in tuxes? And what’s this prejudice against prisoners? I’ve spent a lot of time in jail — drunken disorderly, mostly — and let me tell you, you’ll never meet a nicer bunch of guys. Most of my closest friends, in fact, I met behind bars.
As for your grandma… she probably loved it. Think about it. She’s an old bag who hasn’t gotten any in years because her husband has either lost interest in her or is too cheap in invest in Viagra. And then she meets some strapping young stud who, because he’s been in the slammer so long, is open to anything even remotely female. She’ll probably write him letters.
I’ve really had it with you bridezillas. The slightest thing goes wrong and you never shut up about it. Oh, woe is me! Some guy got horribly drunk, picked a fight with a kid, propositioned me at the altar, grabbed the mic from the best man to tell filthy jokes and fell face-first into the cake.
Okay, it’s usually me they’re complaining about. But I’m just trying to liven things up. Weddings can be so boring. The only way I got through mine was by being ripped on acid.
Which really opened my eyes and let me see through the bullshit. All those people, dressed in their Sunday best, they weren’t people. They were assets.
“Do you, this hideous pile of credit card debt, take this substantial investment portfolio, to be your lawful legal partner, to invest capital, acquire property and accumulate interest, till bankruptcy do you part?”
No! I wanted to scream, and run madly out of the church.
(Actually, I think I did. I have this vague memory of being tackled by my wife’s brother and dragged, kicking and screaming, back up to the altar.)
I don’t want to be just another commercial entity, whose only purpose is to create, purchase and consume material and immaterial goods.
But trying tell them that, all those people with fresh faces, pretty hair and shiny shoes, who’ve come to witness your dissolution as an individual outfit and reformation as the junior member of a joint venture.
(Talk about hostile takeovers.)
And why? Children, of course. It’s all about the inheritance, who gets what. Property is the whole point of marriage. If we weren’t so bloody greedy, if we just shared everything like the brothers Lennon, John and Vladimir, told us, we’d be able to fuck whoever we wanted and never worry about it.
There’d still be kids. You can’t have fucking without the occasional kid coming along to ruin things. But even then it wouldn’t be so bad because they’d be common property. We’d be one big happy family and you could look after as many — or, in my case, as few — as you like.
So what went wrong? Agriculture. That’s the root of it. The first person to plant a seed made a big mistake. We should’ve just kept plucking fruit from trees. It’s that urge to get ahead, have some extra food for winter, a new fur frock or a slightly nicer hovel than your neighbor, that sinks us.
Now look at us. We’ve turned the planet to shit. Pollution. Deforestation. Overpopulation. Soil erosion. Species extinction. Ocean acidification. Global warming. And you’re upset because your wedding wasn’t perfect?
Wake the fuck up. We’re on the Titanic and heading straight for the biggest, fattest iceberg humanity has ever seen. Fortunately, it’s not too late to throw off the shackles of civilization and return to our true selves. Billions will starve of course. But that’s a small price to pay to sneak back into Eden.
So get divorced. Throw that dress in the garbage. Cut up your credit cards. Refuse to pay your student loans. Burn your house down. Stop buying shit you don’t need and run wild in the streets like the murderous sex-crazed monkey you really are. You’ll be glad you did. Really. Hope this helps.
Sincerely,
Dale
Hi. If you’ve made it this far, you probably liked the story. So why not check out some others at my Medium page? https://medium.com/dear-dale
