Congratulations Are In Order

Well, the Mothball nuptials were pretty freaking awesome. The hotel, the church, the rehearsal dinner, and especially the reception were all fantastic, and it was a blast seeing old college buddies that I, in my lameitude, have increasingly lost touch with of late--particularly those that were unable to make our wedding last year like Jism and Crowley. Booya. Although, on the way home Lizett and I wondered where the hell Goat was all weekend, since we somehow only saw him for 3 minutes when we stole his seat at breakfast. Sorry dude, hope you make it out to Merello's. So anyway, the reception was all kinds of opulent, with a grand hall, wine tree, orchids everywhere, great food, and a fantastic band. The cocktail hour featured spreads of cheese so vast that merely looking at them caused Raul's sphincter to explode. I'll go ahead and pause for a minute so you can come up with your own joke about how Rocky wanted to be the one to explode Raul's sphincter... ... ...BONG! How very vulgar. Sorry, there were a lot of inappropriate comments flying around this weekend, guess I'm still in the mode.

Everyone had a great time though, particularly Ball's dad, I think, who had a look of pride and happiness etched onto his face all weekend that was, all flippant commentary aside, really quite touching. Ball and Erica started off the reception with a First Dance medley so awesome that I'm beginning to suspect that Mothball somehow traded places with Alfonso Ribeiro himself and no one noticed because they were too entranced by the rhythm of the dance. I thought my mind couldn't be any more blown--only to be proven wrong on the drive home, when Lizett opined to me that the height of eroticism is a fully nude Mr. Belvedere lying across a bearskin rug singing Roger Whittaker's The Last Farewell. Not that I disagree, it just blew my mind. True story.

Anyway, while we're on the subject of dancing, I must request that you bastards stop trying to drag me out onto the dance floor. I know that as I sit at my table, practicing the moves I learned at the Tyrone Willingham school of impassive facial stoicism, I don't look like I'm having a particularly good time, but truly, I do enjoy just sitting back and hanging out. "But Mal," you say, "I knew you in college, you used to dance, and I can personally attest you've never had any problem making an utter fool out of yourself!" Well, generic college buddy, what you don't know, what you couldn't have known, is that during the intervening years I've had an experience that has changed my life forever. It was the sweltering summer of '07, and The Humpty Dance was blasting across a crowded dance floor. Taking my chance to do the hump, I limped to the side like my leg was broken, and a lone quarter fell from my pocket, vanishing into the crowd in the blink of an eye. I dove after, scrambling, clawing, biting, my heart screaming even as my lungs couldn't find the strength, but my quarter was gone. I haven't seen it since, and on some dark days, I think I never will...but on that day, I dropped to my knees and made a vow: never again will I set foot on a dance floor until that quarter and I are reunited. The moral is this: don't try to drag me out onto the dance floor, because it can only end, at best, in your heartbreak and abject disappointment, and at worst, in the total annihilation of the universe, starting at the nexus of my foot and your nuts.

So congrats to Mothball and Erica on a great party and the start of a great new life. Let's all do it again in three weeks.