Two dearly beloved friends of mine are getting married today, despite the overwhelming odds against them. I have been informed that measures are in place, should I so much as open my mouth rather than "hold my peace".
Tasers were mentioned four separate times.
I feel so loved.
So! Since I will not be allowed to share my Cassandra knowledge when it might do great good, I will share it here, where I'll do great fun.
Let's call the groom A and the bride B.
A and B met each other while A was going through a severe identity crisis because he was - DUN DUN DUN - a virgin. At twenty three! Oh the horrors, the unspeakable horrors! He had bad luck, he said, every time he met a cute girl and dated her to the point where fun sexy times were inevitable, something would go wrong. They'd be making out in her house and her dad would open the door and threaten to beat him to a pulp. They'd be making out in his house, and his sister would come in and be a bitch and pretend to be his wife, just to watch the fireworks. (I love A's sister. A's sister is the kind of evil everyone wants to be when they grow up.)
To make a long story short, A was miserable and dying of blue balls. And he was annoying. Oh GOD, was he annoying. He would not shut up about it. So Jar - my soulmate/best friend/better half, for those just starting to follow this one-woman act of wonders - said, Enough.
He told A his problem was that he didn't know how to procure himself the necessary privacy to conduct his sexy fun times without interruption. A retorted that he couldn't very well take his girlfriends to a hotel - because that was considered sleezy back in that day and age - and Jar, in his infinite wisdom and kindness said: "No, bro, I've got you covered."
You see, years before, Jar had had a very active club scene phase, where he'd party from sundown to sunrise just because he could. And since his parents lived in fear of him dropping dead one day, they bought him a small apartment in the heart of the clubbing district in the city. It was small and old and not particularly noteworthy, but Jar still had keys to it. So because he was sick and tired of A being an absolute whiny bitch about the state of his unpunched V-card, Jar declared that operation Get A Laid So He Will Shut Up Already was underway.
He paid for a super nice expensive dinner at one of those ridiculously classy restaurants you're not allowed to step in the vicinity of, if you're not wearing sparkly clothes. He gave A the keys. And he told him to, and I quote, "go get her, tiger."
Now this was Jar. Jar was my best friend. Mine. As soon as he sent A on his way, Jar came pick me and two other friends up and he declared that operation Watch A Fuck This Up, I Cannot Believe This Kid was also underway. We followed them to dinner, we followed them to the streets, and then we finally followed them to the fabled apartment building of sexy fun times and V-card punching fame. Our job was to make sure the idiot didn't fuck up his date before getting to the end of it. He did not. It was amazing.
Then we went and got drunk for like six hours because it's fun to stalk friends out in dates in public but there's something vaguely desperate about staring up a building hoping to get a hint of how things are going. We danced, we drank, we played pool and basically we partied hard as hell, because honestly, A's whining was at an end!
What could possibly go wrong?
A calls, a couple hours later.
A sounds distraught.
So we go, because dammit, we're drunk as fuck but this is a friend and FRIENDSHIP TRUMPS ALL - and we all were kind of wondering what the fuck he could have done to fuck this up when we'd worked so hard to set it up perfectly, what with the stalking and the nervous giggling while we acted like creepy, silly bird watchers with a problem.
We found A sitting on the sidewalk, outside the apartment building of sexy fun times and V-card punching fame. Head in his hands, back bowed, the very picture of V-card unpunched misery.
"How did you even fuck this up," Jar asks, because Jar was very, very dedicated to his schemes and he absolutely refused to accept the possibility of them not working the way he intended them to.
A says nothing, shakes his head and motions for us to follow him. So we do. Up three flights of stairs we go, into the apartment. It's old, alright, but it's not too shabby. There's a bottle of wine opened and emptied on the counter, but only one glass. A pays no mind to it all and heads straight for the bedroom. He stands next to the bed, points and deadpans:
Jar sits, and the bedsprings creak like something out of a looney toon cartoon.
"Okay, so that was unexpected," Jar admits, laughing a little, "but it's not that bad, was she mad?"
"Oh, that wasn't what made her mad," A says, sitting down and bouncing up and down the mattress. "She was."
And then we hear it. Loud, thunderous steps up the stairs and down the corridor. We look at the door and a tiny, fat, old lady bursts through the half-opened door, broom in hand and eyes shining like tiny dots of bright red hate.
"Your perversions are not welcome here!" She screams, and then proceeds to run us all out.
With a broom.
See, turns out Jar hadn't used that apartment in a while, but his brother had been using it as a lovenest for years. And since his brother is a twat, he'd driven the downstairs neighbor to a Pavlovian compulsion for murder and violence, triggered by the sound of those springs creaking. I don't even want to know what the old lady thought of a bunch of guys and a tiny, chubby teenager crowding around the bed, with the door wide open, with that frame of reference behind her.
You see, A and B started off... rough. And now they're tying the knot. And I'm gonna sit there and smile pleasantly and by all means not say anything unfortunate, because A's sister is gonna be sitting next to me, with a taser in her bag. (And A's sister is hot, too.)
Besides, speaking up in the middle of a wedding is too... vulgar, for me.
No, I'll just wait until they get to the gift opening and find the broom so lovingly wrapped up by moi.