All good things must come to an end. The same is also true of shitty things. Like this blog, for example. Together, dear readers, we have been through a lot. From how much I hate hipsters, to how much I hate tossing bouquets, to how much I hate DJs, and even how much I hate barns. And yet, despite these thinly veiled cries for help, none of you enrolled me in anger management. Thanks a lot for looking out for me, guys. But seriously, fuck hipsters. And barns. Anyway, I’ll be getting married on Friday to my lovely bride and after that I will never have to discuss anything related to weddings ever again beyond the question, “Is it an open bar?” And recently I’ve been slightly busy studying for the bar in two states and maintaining my washerboard abs. Both of which I am failing at miserably, but this isn’t the ManlyLetsDiscussBrian’sEndlessStringOfFailuresBlog. Because that blog is called my life. And it is not funny. Since I’ve been busy, I haven’t been able to discuss the wedding itself or the bachelor party. So here we go, as we wrap up this sad experiment in illiteracy known as ManlyWeddingBlog. If you’re new to this blog, just stop reading now. It’s gonna get weird.
THE BACHELOR PARTY
The Bachelor Party, which I for some reason feel compelled to capitalize like it’s a proper noun, was thrilling to say the least. And I shall say the least. Since I’m a pants-poopingly old man, I fell asleep at a bar. AT 8 O’CLOCK. PM. SOBER. In case you’re wondering how hard I party, imagine those adorable YouTube videos of kids falling asleep in their Cheerios and replace the cereal with Coors Light. Oh yeah, I rage. We ended up in New Jersey, which was fun because I got to walk among them and they accepted me like one of their own. “Where are your barbed wire tattoos?” they would ask as I passed. “I don’t have any tattoos.” “And what type of Affliction t-shirt is that?” Raising my hand to the growing crowd of confused ape-creatures, “There are other brands of t-shirts,” I would answer calmly as they formed a circle around me and sighed, “Tell us more stories of this magical world of which you speak, Wendybird.” Have you ever seen photos of when the British ruled India and there’s some dude in fancy clothes with a cane drinking tea while a tiger is eating some poor villager behind him? It was kinda like that but with Fireball whiskey instead of tea. And guidos instead of tigers.
Actually I’m kidding because we were in the fancy part of New Jersey, which is not an adjective often thrown around in that state. The Bachelor Party (still capitalized, because I failed grade school English) took place in Cape May, a place better known for women who wear opera glasses and say, “Well I never!” than strippers. So we didn’t have strippers, but we did have some pretty wild masquerade balls! Just kidding, we just drank lots of alcohol. At some point in the evening I made the mistake of saying, “I’ll be fine as long as nobody gives me shots of Fireball,” and since my friends are all terrible assholes I woke up the next morning and threw up six packs of Big Red gum. I’m fairly certain that I turned into a giant red blob of spiced whiskey like that scene in Willy Wonka where the chick eats the gumball and becomes a giant purple monster. Except the difference being it was a lot less fun and a lot more sad because I’m a grown man and this was real life. All in all, the moral of the story is: it’s not a crime if a cop doesn’t see it. And throwing up spiced whiskey in the bathroom of an Atlantic City Expressway rest stop is the lowest point a human can reach outside of prostitution. Actually, prostitution is probably cleaner.
THE ACTUAL WEDDING
This Friday, July 5th, I will be getting married in a barn in Southwestern Pennsylvania. Or as the local headline of the country newspaper reads, “HOLY SHIT, LOOK AT ALL THESE IRISH CATHOLICS.” Having looked over my guest list, it really is a shame that my ancestors spent so much time on an immigrant ship because apparently I was raised in County Philadelphia, Ireland. If somebody who was half-Polish walked by the reception they’d get a diversity scholarship. As I’ve mentioned before, we’re getting married in a barn. Because we’re horse-people, which I’m not sure is something I’ve revealed on here before. So, there ya have it: I’m a horse. Getting married in a country barn actually makes perfect sense, especially considering that when I was growing up I thought that grass was just the sidewalk’s hair. I’m real country is the point. Anyway, we’re getting married in an old barn in a quick ceremony that is basically an elopement stapled on to a five hour party. We’re having bar-b-q (spelling?) food and kegs of Yuengling. Which means that my fiancee (wife?) has made the transition from a Jersey shore girl to a girl getting married in a barn closer to Ohio than an ocean, with 200 drunk Irish Catholic Philadelphians, and kegs of Yuengling. Light’s will guiiiiide you home, and igniiiiite your bones. And we willl trrrrryyy to fix you we Pennsylvanians shall sing to her as she puts on a Phillies hat and throws up on a small child at a sporting event. We’ve converted her entirely. She’s like a zombie if zombies thought that terrible facial hair from the 90s and sports jerseys on adults was cool.
The ceremony itself is non-religious, or as God would put it, “a one way ticket to Hell.” There are six bridesmaids and six groomsmen, assuming that all of my groomsmen remember that they need to be sober enough to drive out to Pittsburgh at some point this week. So likely about 3 groomsmen and 3 “Sorry, dude” calls sometime in two weeks. We hired a DJ and not a band, because apparently my iPod must be broken and nobody informed me. I’m not sure what other details about weddings people like to know… she’s changing her name? That’s happening, if that’s a thing people care about. My plan is to get her to change her ENTIRE name to my name so that SHE can drown in student loan debt until she dies of old age. Sorry, until we die of old age together. Poor. Very very poor. How romantic. OH, MY VOWS! How could I forget? My vows are going to be, “I could stay awake just to hear you breathing. Watch you smile while you are sleeping, while you’re far away and dreaming. I could spend my life in this sweet surrender. I could stay lost in this moment forever. Because every moment spent with you is a moment I treasuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuure” and then Steven Tyler shows up and we blow up an asteroid and save Earth. And yes, I’m available as a wedding planner, ladies.
Anyway, it’s been real everyone. This blog is officially over and I guess I’ll go get one of those “jobs” I keep reading about in these “newspapers” I keep reading about. Just kidding I can’t read. If I ever start blogging again, I’ll let you know via Twitter at @bpatrickmalloy and if you want me to blog for you (for money) I’d be happy (for money.) I really appreciate the love that we received from this blog. Apparently some of you thought my insanity was funny, and that’s kinda dark because everything on this blog was dead serious. I really am that poor, that stupid, and that obsessed with Armageddon. Not one joke appeared on this blog. But my wife and I thank you from the bottom of our hearts for the amount of love and support this clown of a blog received over the last year. The amount of attention that this blog received was far too much and all you people did was encourage me, so shame on you. If you had turned the other way the internet would not have been further bloated by my insane ramblings about Nicolas Cage and dogs dressed as dolphins.
Which brings me to my final point.
Yeah, it’s a shark, but let me give you some parting advice through my thoughtful words of wisdom:
When God gives you lemons… dress your dog up like a shark.