I just married a man.
First of all, if my girlfriend is reading this, I’LL BE HOME SOON SWEETIE! I’m just up here in Vermont for the day, since it’s the only place in the U.S. where same-sex unions are legal. Bruce and I are going to catch an evening bus, and should be in very late tonight.
About Bruce. He’s a big guy. A professional sculptor who works exclusively with steel girders and discarded auto parts. Though rough, his massive hands are capable of extreme finesse, as evidenced by his most recent piece, ‘The Dusk of Patience’.
It’s basically a giant spider with penises for legs.
Bruce is built like an athlete, with thick, bronze, lumber-like arms, shoulders you could land a helicopter on, and an ass like a gyroscope. Despite his imposing physical presence, he conducts himself with such warmth and kindness that his friends call him Saint Bruce. And he loves Scrabble!
Frankly, he’s exactly the type of guy I’d fall for if I were gay.
Okay. Why marry Bruce? I’m in the worst financial shape of my life. I have no “career” to speak of. I already live with my girlfriend. Heck, I’m as straight as Bruce’s meatpipe (sometimes he uses it as a level!). So why get married? To a hunk?
I guess I wanted to exercise some good ol’ American freedom. The freedom to be who I want and live how I wish, as long as I’m not infringing on anyone else’s pursuit of their own happiness.
Plus, Bruce makes the best tofu fajitas I have ever had.
Okay, Lance, at this point I think it’s safe to say that you have not only beaten cancer, you have totally beaten the holy living crap out of it. If you don’t win the Tour de France for a record sixth-straight time next year, the headlines should read – “Lance Armstrong Loses Long Valiant Battle With Cancer.”
I am a best man. Let me rephrase that. I am the best man. The groom is my best friend who I have known since high school. The wedding is on August 16th. I have taken copious notes with the intent of writing a perfect best man toast to kick-off the reception, but so far nothing has clicked. Here are just a few of the snippets/ideas that will most certainly NOT make it into the final toast:
1. I gots ta say, he better not be marryin’ her ’cause she good at the BJs. I SAID he best not be marryin’ her for the BJs! ‘Cause once the honeymoon over, ain’t gonna be no more BJs! He be like, “honey can I getsa BJ?” And she be all “here a vacuum cleaner – when you done with the livin’ room take care yo self!” HOO!
2. I have been doing some independent research in an effort to determine the size of the Battlestar Galactica. There are basically three camps on this issue, one that says that Galactica is 2000 feet long, one that says it is 6080 feet long, and one that says it is, now get this, 2-3 miles long! Now then, my original intent was to present evidence that the 6080 foot measurement is the correct one, but after doing the research I’ve come across some interesting measurements. I now intend to present all of my research in an unbiased manner and let you, basking here in the glow of Michael and Abby’s union, decide what you want to believe…
3. Feel that? Feel the grip? That’s ionized rubber. You won’t find that on a store bought knife.
4. You DO NOT judge me! You DO NOT! I am on my own fucking schedule. NO! You DO NOT get to look at me like that! WHAT? Oh so thisn’t the time to…I AM NOT slurring! THISN’T is a fucking WORD!
5. Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called ‘Life’. Electric word, ‘Life’, it means forever and that’s a mighty long time, but I mean to tell ya…there’s something else. The afterworld. A world of neverending happiness, where you can always see the sun. Day. Night. So when you call up that shrink in Beverly Hills, you know the one “Doctor Everything’ll Be Alright”, instead of asking him how much of your time is up, ask him how much of your MIND baby, ’cause in this life, things are much harder than in the afterworld…in this life, YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN! ONE TIME, HOO! (yeah, I wrote this from memory)
6. …so we’re all screaming at him “No, that’s not a toilet!”
7. Mamma say. Mamma sah. Ma-mah-coo-sah.
8. Mike and I still play Dungeons & Dragons to this day. Didn’t know that, didya Abby? Whoah, looks like Mike’s gonna have to roll a saving throw for “honeymoon cold shoulder!”
9. There is no formula for a perfect marriage, just as there is no definition for the word “superdoodylickers.”
10. Now I will pour the acid into the sugar and voila! Carbon! You see, often two mismatched substances, when forced together, can produce something useful! Though filthy. Now let us raise our glasses…
11. …then I noticed the complaints stopped. I started thinking “Wow, either Abby’s letting him do you-know-what you-know-where, or he’s started getting his kicks on the docks!”
12. As their love grew together, so did they grow more in love. And in this love I feel we can all take part in the great love that they together have nurtured and shared their love.
13. Now then Grandpa Reisman…is THIS your card?
14. (just keep smiling like an idiot and ‘dinging’ the glass and never stop until someone forces me to)
I’d post more but I gotta leave my temp job now.
I met Kevin in the Spring of 1997, at a meeting of Vicarious Astronaut Bi-Monthly subscribers. He and I had both developed an intense interest in imagining we were astronauts during periods of inactivity. For him, the magazine was a great way to fuel his creativity during his painful hospital stays. For me, it helped pass the time while I sat in my car waiting to pop some S.O.B. Or nab some cartons off the back of a truck. Whatever. The point is, we connected at this meeting. The main point of the meeting was to clear up the confusion as to what “bi-monthly” meant. The room was evenly split between people who expected 24 issues a year, and those who expected 6. Neither side was satisfied, since there were in fact 15 issues per year.
Kevin was always splashing cold water on his face and head. He had a bowl of ice water with him. He said if he didn’t his brain would overheat and he would die. He also had bandages all over his arms and hands. It turns out he had the most freakin’ unfortunate combination of conditions you’d never heard of:
1. Thermal Craniosis. The aforemention hot brain thing.
2. Manual Rotation Perpendiculitis. Due to a crossed-wire in his head or some shit like that, his hands couldn’t properly follow what his brain wanted them to do. Mainly, he would make a violent poking motion whenever he actually wanted to just turn or twist something, like a cold water faucet.
3. Specific Visual Swapping Syndrome. Incurable. When a person always sees one specific thing when in fact he is looking at one specific other thing. In Kevin’s case, he had the misfortune of ALWAYS, and I mean ALWAYS, seeing cold water faucets when in fact he was looking at the tail of a large dog. Only large dogs. Unfortunately, it was a one way condition, so he couldn’t just tell himself to swap what he saw. When he actually WAS looking at a cold water faucet, that’s what he saw.
4. Half-Inch Differential Binocularity. Whatever he’s looking at is actually half-an-inch higher than where he sees it. Like if he were looking at a dog’s tail, it would actually be just a little higher than where he thought it was.
Any one of these conditions would pose a challenge to a normal person, but a dealable challenge. Something you could freakin’ deal with. But with this F’ed up combo, the results were often disastrous. Kevin, during emergencies when he absolutely needed some cold water to cool off his skull, had many times instead just violently poked a large dog directly in the ass.
Hence the bandages.
But Kevin was a pretty well-adjusted kid.
Pretty soon people will start checking this blog with some regularity again, and I’ll have to write something worth reading.