The Governess rose from her deathbed on Sunday just in time to drag me to a wedding of her old college chum. If you removed the part of the day where a man in a giant Ford 350 Monster Truck rear ended us on 66 with such force that all of the G’s Mission UK and Brinksi Beat CDs that were in the trunk ended up in the front seat with us, then it was a pretty good time. Also, you’d have take away the part where my lovely wife threw away my driver’s license, sentencing me to a morning at the DMV. Oh, and my wedding cupcake was too dry.
The day was okay. I guess.
But the wedding itself was a good time. Although the G knew the bride (and no one else) and I knew the G (barely) we were designated as the couple that helps fills out whichever side of the church had the least amount of family. And then at the reception we were banished to that oddball table near the dance floor where they hope us riffraff won’t cause trouble. It worked too, because when I leaned too far back in my chair I only crashed onto the reinforced faux wood dance surface instead of great aunt Helen’s ample lap.
I was hoping to be at the table with that one girl in the denim jacket with red streaks in her dyed black hair* but instead we sat with 6 middle and high school teachers. And even though several of them were younger than us we became the de facto children when I was able to explain the significance of this “4:20” thing one teacher’s junior class was so excited about. Another complained she often did not know what her students were slanging about so I volunteered my experiences as a wildly immature adult. (any links past this point should be considered NSFW)
Miss Bliss: For a math competition the class spilt into team and I let them pick there own names.
N’bob: Bad idea?
Miss Bliss: That’s what I want to know. One group called themselves “Team Dirty Sanchez.”
N’bob: It’s not really something I’d be willing to define by yelling across the table, but you should probably make them change it.
Miss Bliss: Okay. The other is “Team Cleveland Steamer.”
N’bob: (Grimacing) Same thing.
Miss Bliss: How about “Team Space Docking?”
N’bob: I’ve never heard that one. But there is zero chance it has anything to do with a Soyuz capsule.
But maybe it does.
Especially if Lance Bass is involved.
Jeez, I don’t even know what that comment's supposed to mean. But it cost $20 million to produce.