Tag Archives: Wedding

The Wicked Witch of the Wedding

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I’m sitting at my desk looking at a picture of myself at our son, Phinias’, wedding.  It’s reminded me of the scary tale of The Wicked Witch of the Wedding

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One day a child announces they plan to marry the love of their life.  Immediately a spell is cast upon the mother – an evil spell.

In the beginning stages, right after the engagement, euphoria rains down on her.  But then, her hair begins to turn grey and her fingernails sharpen into claws.

“I know you said it was a small wedding but why can’t we invite all my friends?  They’re like family.”

Then bit-by-bit, her sparkling eyes turn dark and bloodshot and her previously clear skin begins to sag and wrinkle.

“What do you mean you want to choose your own place for your wedding?  I thought we’d have it our back yard.”

Before the mother knows it, the wedding day has arrived and she’s found screaming at one of her loving brothers who’s graciously volunteered to be the photographer.

“What are you thinking?  Stop everything!  There’s a shadow on the bride’s face.”

Ten minutes before the outdoor ceremony is to begin, the farmer in the field across the road begins to work in his field.  And, although no one else seems to notice, the roar of the combine screams through the her ears.

The mother/witch careens around on her broom demanding that “Some…One…D0…Something!”

She’s finally seated and the ceremony begins.  One of her brothers points out that the bride’s train is slightly askew.  He convinces the mother she should get up from her seat and yank the offending fabric into place.

“Sorry.  Excuse me.  This will just take a minute.”  And the transformation is complete.  She’s become The Wicked Witch of the Wedding.

Somewhere in the Universe, a good witch sends out another spell that travels through a twister and lands on the Wicked Witch, striking her down with a debilitating migraine.  As her punishment she must spend the entire reception vomiting in the ladies room, unable to participate in the long anticipated mother/son dance.

The spell is finally broken and she is able to drag her weak and sweat-soaked body out of the bathroom in time to see the blissful couple head off to live happily ever after.

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Note to our other son, Ferb:  If you’re reading this – know that I’ve learned my lesson and I’m certain that when you’re ready to marry I’ll be much better behaved.  I realize now that our backyard is no place for a wedding, but (cackle, cackle – I mean cough, cough) would it be okay if I invited all my friends?

 

 

Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner

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Which is unfortunate, for this Baby at least, because the corner is where I feel most comfortable.

At one point in my Crazie life, I was the personal assistant to a young woman who ran a resort in Newport Beach.  One of the more difficult tasks she assigned was to plan and execute a successful bachelorette party for her.

Concerned that a corner-dweller like me wouldn’t know anything about such things, she wrote notes.  I’d walk in each morning and find one of these lying on my desk:

“Don’t forget that the party bus should be stocked with tequila and rum for the Horny Bull shots.”

“Don’t forget to stop by the sex toy shop and buy a gift for everyone.”

“Don’t forget to order the stripper.”

Like any good assistant, I looked up the proper etiquette for throwing a bachelorette party.  Here’s a bit of what I found:  “If your bride is a classic bachelorette party kind of gal, you’ll have to track down the perfect assortment of penis paraphernalia. May we suggest: penis mints, penis pasta, a penis ice-cube tray, penis cake pan, penis straws, and penis candles.”  Since strippers were involved, I did think it best to avoid the candles, but everything else was in place.

The doorbell rang.  I brought the stripper in, pointed out the bride, and then hurried to an out-0f-the-way corner.  This may come as a surprise to you, but I’m not a big fan of strippers.  Besides the whole “treating a person like an object” thing, they’re usually sweaty and this one danced until he dripped.  Somewhere in the middle of his gyrations his eyes locked mine and like a magnet to metal, he headed straight for me.

I peered around his six-pack hoping for a rescue but the crowd squealed its delight.  And let me tell you, there’s nothing a stripper loves more than a squealing crowd.  He pulled a dollar bill from his G-string and stuffed it down the front of my shirt.  Then, he lifted the bottom of my shirt and removed the dollar bill with his teeth.  (Blech!  Just writing this made me throw-up in my mouth a little.) Finally, when no new dollar bills appeared from me in his G-string he moved on to the delighted mother of the bride.

This is why, as Mayor of Crazie Town, I’ve passed an ordinance that all houses must be built as octagons.  Lot’s more corners to hide in.