Zach Oooh!n
You come and you glow and you hum and you hover/I cannot believe that you're my lover
On or relating to a Catholic Wedding; or why bringing a guy over from Ireland just cos he knocked up yer daughter might not shouldn't be Plan A, a list
5. First off, theRy looked fabulous. What a girl. Her cousin Jaime got married, and she looked great too.
4. Catholic Weddings. You can't explain it unless the person yer talking to has experienced it. Like sex. Or Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Or
Spoon live. They take forever. Forever and ever. Amen. There's a lot of standing and sitting and kneeling. I'll say this: you know yer at a Pagan Catholic Church when the kneelers (is there another name?) actually have some padding. You cannot repent your evil sins with comfortable knees, can you? The church we were at had a plastic covering on the kneeler at that's about it. Bruised knees. Pain. Ry did the readings beautifully and without any sort of hesitation that might have led the Priest (named "Reverend Dick" by Ry's Uncle, which is about as offensive a name as you can give to a Priest, and well deserved) to make a comment. At the rehearsal dinner he yelled at her for bringing her papers to the podium with her. As if it might matter. As if God (given he exists, which I don't) were watching the very holy rehearsal of the wedding with a frown and a Michelob Ultra, saying, "He let her bring her papers with her?!??! Burn him!" The wedding wedding went off without a hitch, despite Ry's cousin opening an individually wrapped Peppermint Candy slowly, slowly during the quietest part of the ceremony and then wrinkling the wrapper in his fingers and then biting into it right before they said "I do" in such a way as to make it apparent to the entire congregation that he was, indeed, breaking Reverend Dick's number one rule: "No gum, no food, no drinks, no candy." (One would think that the number one rule would be like "Don't talk about the recent scandals" or something, but this guy had a hardon (or a softee) for chewing things). I laughed for about fifteen minutes, which I always end up doing at weddings, somehow.
3. As Greg Statique say: Marriage is nothing more than indentured monogamy. In this case, however, the participants love each other, and really do, and there's no reason to be cynical, as there was in the last wedding I went to, where the bride expressed her contempt for the groom no more than 12 hours before the ceremony.
2. I am a huge fan of open bars. Ry's uncle is like a kingpin (more on this later) of the town they live in (Kickapoo, ILL: don't make fun) and invited about 600 people to the reception, of which about half showed up, of which those half were almost all drinkers give or take ten or twenty, of which those drank Twelve kegs of beer (and we're talking Bud and Miller Light and a thick, hotchocolate-esque Irish beer, not yer usual shitty cheap beer) and the better 3/4 of hard liquor which included six each of Name Brand Whiskeys (you can't beat free Jack Daniels with a fucking stick), Rum, Scotch (They had fucking Johnnie Walker Black!), those nasty Pucker drinks, four different kinds of Vodka (yes, they had twenty bottles of Vodka), and others. There was more alcohol spilled on the floor than most weddings serve all night. I drank and drank and drank and didn't get drunk. This is a promise. I must have had twelve beers. The fried chicken I ate for dinner soaked up most of it, and what remained was probably soaked up by the fried chicken from the night before. Talking liquor leads us to
1. The Irishman. This guy. Wow. About as ugly as a human being can get: big head, smushed face (from fighting, as you'll see later), big old belly, sloppy in all manners. He's here because he got an important businessman's daughter pregnant while she was in Ireland, and the father wanted him to be here. He talks openly about how much he loathes his future wife (sample quote: "She just foocking talks and talks and talks and I can't fooking shut 'er oop."). And, as a stereotype lived up, he drinks like a fucking dead man. He was half in the bag at about 4:30, so you can imagine what he was like at 9:00. So he spends most of his time there leering at the young girls on the dance floor and/or hitting on the girls of his own age (though not of his own physical stature, thank God), until about 9:00 when he starts getting so drunk he can't open his eyes. Really, the drunkest I've ever seen anyone, and I grew up in an extended family of people who drink Whiskey and Water at X-mas parties as if both X-mas and Whiskey Waters were going out of style. Yet he stayed on his feet and walked around and danced and was just all around. So everybody thinks he's kinda funny and they don't say anything to him like "Whoa, Kieran, maybe it's time to stop drinkin, eh?" or "Yo, Irishdude, lay off the hot chocolate beer".
And the real Kieran starts coming out. The GetSoDrunkICan'tFookingSeeButCanStillSayOffensiveThingsAndMakePhysicalThreatsToWomen Kieran. This TGSDICFSBCSSOTAMPTTW Kieran starts tending bar. Tending bar. Tending bar. A grandmother goes up to order a Pepsi. He tells her, in front of a large group of people including her grandson, to "sit on this and fooking spin" whilst flicking her off. Grandson A picks up a bottle and tells him to watch his mouth. TGSDICFSBCSSOTAMPTTW tells him to "fook oof". TGSDICFSBCSSOTAMPTTW walks away and comes over to where I'm sitting. A super-nice lady asks him why he decided to shave his head. TGSDICFSBCSSOTAMPTTW grabs his dick and yells "Fook ye. I'll shave me deek any time I wont". TGSDICFSBCSSOTAMPTTW makes his way out to the dance floor, where Grandson B confronts him. TGSDICFSBCSSOTAMPTTW says something to the effect of "fook ye", which, really, is pretty much his vocabulary. Then, in an almost modern dance-esque move, TGSDICFSBCSSOTAMPTTW hits Grandson B. Square. Granson B doesn't like this, and attempts to retaliate. At this point, in my opinion, the entire wedding should have stomped the fucking dolt and thrown him on his teeth. They would have done that to me, and I would have deserved it. Instead, people hold Grandson B back. And take him outside. And. And. I can barely believe it to write it. They let TGSDICFSBCSSOTAMPTTW stay. They let him fucking stay, and let him walk around the reception hall with a big fucking beer stain down the front of his shirt, and he keeps saying things to people, and he almost gets beat up. Finally, in a fit of near-maddening complacency, the host of the party gives the order to take him home. And this guy. This guy refuses. He will not leave. He talks shit to three of the bride's brother's friends, who are hardly tiny guys, and they let it go. They let his "Kas me Irish azz"'s slip off them like they would let a child's unkind words. Finally they drag him outside, and he hits the guy who puts him in the car. And the host of the party, who is like a Midwestern Tony Soprano, just sorta laughs it all off, and tells us that he called TGSDICFSBCSSOTAMPTTW's wife and she's really apologetic, to which Ry's mom said "She shouldn't apologize for marrying that drunk" which was greeted with "here-here!" from me and the Ry and uncomfortable silence from everyone else. Amazing to me, the lengths people will go to not offend business partners. If yer son in law is a drunken louse not worthy of a job in shit shoveling, you might want to know that from a trusted friend. I can't imagine the guy knows how bad the kid is (he left well before this happened, leading me to ask "Who is in charge of this fuck?") and if he does, shame shame shame.
That was a long story, and very unrelated to all of you, but I wrote it and you can skip it.
Next five: anything from the new Richard Buckner LP
in the (computer lab) stereo: Rhett Miller.
You come and you glow and you hum and you hover/I cannot believe that you're my lover
On or relating to a Catholic Wedding; or why bringing a guy over from Ireland just cos he knocked up yer daughter might not shouldn't be Plan A, a list
5. First off, theRy looked fabulous. What a girl. Her cousin Jaime got married, and she looked great too.
4. Catholic Weddings. You can't explain it unless the person yer talking to has experienced it. Like sex. Or Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Or
Spoon live. They take forever. Forever and ever. Amen. There's a lot of standing and sitting and kneeling. I'll say this: you know yer at a Pagan Catholic Church when the kneelers (is there another name?) actually have some padding. You cannot repent your evil sins with comfortable knees, can you? The church we were at had a plastic covering on the kneeler at that's about it. Bruised knees. Pain. Ry did the readings beautifully and without any sort of hesitation that might have led the Priest (named "Reverend Dick" by Ry's Uncle, which is about as offensive a name as you can give to a Priest, and well deserved) to make a comment. At the rehearsal dinner he yelled at her for bringing her papers to the podium with her. As if it might matter. As if God (given he exists, which I don't) were watching the very holy rehearsal of the wedding with a frown and a Michelob Ultra, saying, "He let her bring her papers with her?!??! Burn him!" The wedding wedding went off without a hitch, despite Ry's cousin opening an individually wrapped Peppermint Candy slowly, slowly during the quietest part of the ceremony and then wrinkling the wrapper in his fingers and then biting into it right before they said "I do" in such a way as to make it apparent to the entire congregation that he was, indeed, breaking Reverend Dick's number one rule: "No gum, no food, no drinks, no candy." (One would think that the number one rule would be like "Don't talk about the recent scandals" or something, but this guy had a hardon (or a softee) for chewing things). I laughed for about fifteen minutes, which I always end up doing at weddings, somehow.
3. As Greg Statique say: Marriage is nothing more than indentured monogamy. In this case, however, the participants love each other, and really do, and there's no reason to be cynical, as there was in the last wedding I went to, where the bride expressed her contempt for the groom no more than 12 hours before the ceremony.
2. I am a huge fan of open bars. Ry's uncle is like a kingpin (more on this later) of the town they live in (Kickapoo, ILL: don't make fun) and invited about 600 people to the reception, of which about half showed up, of which those half were almost all drinkers give or take ten or twenty, of which those drank Twelve kegs of beer (and we're talking Bud and Miller Light and a thick, hotchocolate-esque Irish beer, not yer usual shitty cheap beer) and the better 3/4 of hard liquor which included six each of Name Brand Whiskeys (you can't beat free Jack Daniels with a fucking stick), Rum, Scotch (They had fucking Johnnie Walker Black!), those nasty Pucker drinks, four different kinds of Vodka (yes, they had twenty bottles of Vodka), and others. There was more alcohol spilled on the floor than most weddings serve all night. I drank and drank and drank and didn't get drunk. This is a promise. I must have had twelve beers. The fried chicken I ate for dinner soaked up most of it, and what remained was probably soaked up by the fried chicken from the night before. Talking liquor leads us to
1. The Irishman. This guy. Wow. About as ugly as a human being can get: big head, smushed face (from fighting, as you'll see later), big old belly, sloppy in all manners. He's here because he got an important businessman's daughter pregnant while she was in Ireland, and the father wanted him to be here. He talks openly about how much he loathes his future wife (sample quote: "She just foocking talks and talks and talks and I can't fooking shut 'er oop."). And, as a stereotype lived up, he drinks like a fucking dead man. He was half in the bag at about 4:30, so you can imagine what he was like at 9:00. So he spends most of his time there leering at the young girls on the dance floor and/or hitting on the girls of his own age (though not of his own physical stature, thank God), until about 9:00 when he starts getting so drunk he can't open his eyes. Really, the drunkest I've ever seen anyone, and I grew up in an extended family of people who drink Whiskey and Water at X-mas parties as if both X-mas and Whiskey Waters were going out of style. Yet he stayed on his feet and walked around and danced and was just all around. So everybody thinks he's kinda funny and they don't say anything to him like "Whoa, Kieran, maybe it's time to stop drinkin, eh?" or "Yo, Irishdude, lay off the hot chocolate beer".
And the real Kieran starts coming out. The GetSoDrunkICan'tFookingSeeButCanStillSayOffensiveThingsAndMakePhysicalThreatsToWomen Kieran. This TGSDICFSBCSSOTAMPTTW Kieran starts tending bar. Tending bar. Tending bar. A grandmother goes up to order a Pepsi. He tells her, in front of a large group of people including her grandson, to "sit on this and fooking spin" whilst flicking her off. Grandson A picks up a bottle and tells him to watch his mouth. TGSDICFSBCSSOTAMPTTW tells him to "fook oof". TGSDICFSBCSSOTAMPTTW walks away and comes over to where I'm sitting. A super-nice lady asks him why he decided to shave his head. TGSDICFSBCSSOTAMPTTW grabs his dick and yells "Fook ye. I'll shave me deek any time I wont". TGSDICFSBCSSOTAMPTTW makes his way out to the dance floor, where Grandson B confronts him. TGSDICFSBCSSOTAMPTTW says something to the effect of "fook ye", which, really, is pretty much his vocabulary. Then, in an almost modern dance-esque move, TGSDICFSBCSSOTAMPTTW hits Grandson B. Square. Granson B doesn't like this, and attempts to retaliate. At this point, in my opinion, the entire wedding should have stomped the fucking dolt and thrown him on his teeth. They would have done that to me, and I would have deserved it. Instead, people hold Grandson B back. And take him outside. And. And. I can barely believe it to write it. They let TGSDICFSBCSSOTAMPTTW stay. They let him fucking stay, and let him walk around the reception hall with a big fucking beer stain down the front of his shirt, and he keeps saying things to people, and he almost gets beat up. Finally, in a fit of near-maddening complacency, the host of the party gives the order to take him home. And this guy. This guy refuses. He will not leave. He talks shit to three of the bride's brother's friends, who are hardly tiny guys, and they let it go. They let his "Kas me Irish azz"'s slip off them like they would let a child's unkind words. Finally they drag him outside, and he hits the guy who puts him in the car. And the host of the party, who is like a Midwestern Tony Soprano, just sorta laughs it all off, and tells us that he called TGSDICFSBCSSOTAMPTTW's wife and she's really apologetic, to which Ry's mom said "She shouldn't apologize for marrying that drunk" which was greeted with "here-here!" from me and the Ry and uncomfortable silence from everyone else. Amazing to me, the lengths people will go to not offend business partners. If yer son in law is a drunken louse not worthy of a job in shit shoveling, you might want to know that from a trusted friend. I can't imagine the guy knows how bad the kid is (he left well before this happened, leading me to ask "Who is in charge of this fuck?") and if he does, shame shame shame.
That was a long story, and very unrelated to all of you, but I wrote it and you can skip it.
Next five: anything from the new Richard Buckner LP
in the (computer lab) stereo: Rhett Miller.
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