I’ve been on the couch lacquered in varying degrees of filth for about four days now, and I feel really good about that.  You see, this weekend marked the marriage of my good friend, Phil Lomac, to super cool future physician and spokesmodel for nice asses, Jo Ellen “Jodi” Peterson.  They gave their vows on Saturday, October 2^nd, but the wedding itself was but a peripheral event to my ongoing quest for drunken laziness.

 

Right now, I’m sitting in the living room wearing the same clothes I’ve had on since I took off my tux.

 

I have two points about above paragraph.  You’ve had those same clothes on since BEFORE you put the tux on.  And, I didn’t get to see Jodi’s ass.

 

Who the fuck wrote that?!?  Why would I feel the need to put it in a different font color?!?  Well, that’s because fellow writer and PRESIDENT of the nice ass federation, Lori Banderas, is sitting behind me right now ready to insert commentary, (or a foot in my colon), whenever necessary. 

 

Apparently, this is going to be one of the few stories where I can’t exaggerate events…  since, well, she was there…  and, because, she still is. 

 

As such, welcome to the Lori Banderas… how do you say?  Ah yes…  show!

 

 

You can’t exaggerate, unless it’s about my ass.  Go on.

 

NO, NO!!!  TOO SEXY, NO!!!

 

Thursday night marked the first time we met face to face, though we’ve been talking and emailing back and forth for about SEVEN MONTHS now, (which could be the longest relationship with a bipedal mammal I’ve ever had).

 

That doesn’t include the four-legged ones.  He was afraid I wouldn’t talk to him anymore after I saw his tiny little…

 

NO, NO!!!  TOO SEXY, NO!!!

 

As soon as Lori got here, I romantically whisked her away to a seedy little bar called Beirgarden. 

 

Where the waitress took an immediate dislike to Mike. 

 

Yeah, our server was a whore, but I don’t think her dislike sprang from me telling her so.

 

No, it was when you felt her tits and told her you’d seen better “jobs”.

 

Touché…  So we went out with my buddy Ricardo Montebon and his, how do you say?  As yes…  Fag Hag, Tits McGee.

 

You shouldn’t say that about your friend.  He’s desperately trying to find a way OUT of the ass closet.  Ms. McGee is just making him happy while he’s in there… watching gay porn… and dreaming about large black men.  Oh wait- that’s me.  Carry on.

 

The “big black men” thing will come into play later, (not with Ricardo, with Lori), but we’ll get to that.  I’m totally kidding about Ricardo’s flaming homosexuality.  He’s not gay, but his roommate is.  Hold up…

 

No, seriously, I’m only getting off on this tangent because a few weeks ago, two chicks in a bar asked if Ricardo and I were gay, (I assume because I was sitting in his lap, kissing his neck).

 

Two very astute women, I’ll wager.

 

Thanks, Lori. 

 

You know I love your big gay ass.

 

Having a muffin ass doesn’t make me gay, GOD DAMN IT!!!  Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Ricardo and I had on leather chaps and were playing with a bullwhip, when the two chicks in question asked us that most heterosexually feared of questions.  As we rained blows down upon them-

 

Are you sure it wasn’t blows down upon each other?

 

STOP IT!!!

 

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  I’m joining PFLAG.

 

FUCK!!!  Okay, forget about the two girls.  Let’s get back to Thursday night…

 

Eventually, we left Beirgarden and went to another bar called Tressa’s, where Lori stole a drink glass and made herself my new personal hero, (as thievery tends to do).

 

You TOLD me to!!!

 

Shhh… 

 

Me just little girl.  You big man.  You strong like bull.

 

I’m not listening to you…  So, we’d come home and prepared to pass out, when Ricardo and I were treated to some gratuitous nudity thanks to Lori. 

 

You’re welcome.

 

After donning some rather buttocks-hugging jammies, Lori sauntered by on the way to the bedroom.  Naturally, I made some comment about being able to see her butt crack, which prompted Lori to show us the whole thing.

 

Ask, and you shall receive, my children.

 

Yahweh?  And on the seventh day, he saw that it was good.

 

No, he saw that it was ASSTASTIC!!!

 

…and there was much rejoicing.  Lori is now ordering food.  This bitch eats more than anyone I’ve ever seen.  Luckily, she runs seventy-four miles a day, and thus looks hot.

 

Where was I?  Oh yeah.  We passed out Thursday night and woke up early Friday morning to begin sixteen hours of inebriated conversation.  Ricardo and his girlfriend had already gone to do whatever the hell they do during daylight hours, leaving Lori and I alone to expound on our inner secrets… our inner desires… our mutual love of well-endowed unicorns.

 

That’s not ALL we did Friday, remember?  Your bitch ass told me about the time your mother accused you of wearing her underwear, and how you cried like a little girl, ya wee fairy!  Wait, am I NOT supposed to talk about that?  Sorry.  Basically, I never got out of my jammies… but, I did enjoy a little weed… and much gin…  All in all, a good day- except for the fact that I didn’t get laid.

 

Yet… 

 

Let me just say right now that “Drunk Mike” was on standby, as I didn’t wanna expose Lori to The Evil until I was sure she wouldn’t get in her car and drive back to Mississippi.

 

Awww…  You like me!!!  You REALLY, REALLY like me!!!

 

Yes, I do, but I think it’s time to tell my four loyal readers who you are… the most flexible girl I’ve ever folded!  I’M TALKING ANKLES BEHIND THE HEAD, PEOPLE!!! 

 

While I’m not kidding, Lori grew up in Greenville, and then went to Delta State, thus acquainting her with pretty much everyone I know back home, even the Philippino houseboy I broke in at the behest of his mother.

 

Don’t talk about Rob Thomas like that!

 

No Lori, Rob is Lebanese, not Philippino.  Still, I’ll thank you not to bring up experimental Middle Eastern love from college while I’m writing a story… 

 

Okay, so Lori is pretty much like me, except with boobs, and much less body hair.  She doesn’t shove umbrellas up people’s asses and open ‘em, but she does indeed have the ability to verbally ruin shit, and that’s why she was the absolute best choice to ask to Phil’s wedding.  I knew beforehand that all my old Blue Ridge buddies would be there, and I wanted suitable backup.  I’ve got enough unresolved dysfunction in my past to fill half a dozen Pandora’s Boxes, and Lori was so unwarrantedly supportive, that we’d probably be dating right now if she didn’t live six hundred miles away.

 

Is that how far I drove?  FUCK YOU!!!  Plus, that last sentence is incomplete, Mr. Writer, ‘cause you didn’t say HOW I was supportive.  And, oh yeah… the sex wasn’t worth it!!! 

 

Blast!  Well, not counting my sexual failures, Lori and I did have a pretty good time at the wedding. 

 

Aside from that line of coke I did in the bathroom…

 

Wow, I forgot about that!  Neither of us actually did cocaine in the bathroom, but verbally joking about it almost landed me right in the middle of a female fourway.  As Lori entered the bathroom and proclaimed- with deadpan seriousness- that she was gonna snort a line or ten, I glanced at the two nearest servers and said, “How do you guys feel about joining us for group sex?”

 

To my utter surprise, (and resulting masculine embarrassment), the taller of the pair- a freckle faced girl with long blond hair- glanced side to side conspiratorially and replied, “Okay, I’m up for it if-”   

 

And then Mike ran away, like the shit-licking punk he is.

 

STOP IT!!!  I didn’t physically run away, I just made some dismissive joke, as if SHE- the waitress- was kidding.  You can’t blame me, really.  I mean, I wasn’t entirely sure I could service three women at once in a bathroom at my best friend’s wedding.  Hell, I have enough trouble servicing one!

 

I can neither support nor deny these statements, as I was in the bathroom giving a blowjob to one of the groomsmen...  Kidding!  Actually, I was eating an extra plate of food so I wouldn’t vomit the alcohol I’d been imbibing since 1pm that afternoon.  Mike made me start drinking FOUR HOURS before the wedding.  He sucks.

 

HORSESHIT!!!  If you consider holding a woman down and pouring gin through a funnel you’ve forced between her teeth, “making her drink”… then, yes, Captain P.C., I guess I’m guilty.   

 

You’re refusing to talk about the dancing.

 

No I’m not, DEVIL WOMAN!!!  I was just getting to that.  Dancing did indeed occur, but not by choice.  Now-

 

Thirty minutes later…   JESUS BALLS!!!  This guy is a slow writer!

 

Yeah, okay, I’m a slow writer… but at least I cum fast.  Wait, that’s not true.  Lori went all “porno” on me.

 

Just because you’ve never had good sex… well, that isn’t my fault.

 

GREAT ODIN’S RAVEN!!!  Will this story ever be told?!?

 

Not if you don’t stop masturbating…

 

Alright, I’m gonna take my hand out of my pants and start narrating like Earnest Hemmingway with a marlin on the hook.

 

Well, you ARE an old man with an affinity for seaman.

 

Charming, my dear…  So the appointed hour comes around on Saturday to find me in a tuxedo, and Lori decked out in a black ensemble right outta MTV’s Ghetto Bootied Divas.

 

I was.  In fact, one of the bridesmaids wanted to switch outfits with me.  Just goes to show that women dress for other women…  We UNdress, for men.

 

I have no problem with that.

 

Back to the dancing…

 

Apparently, I’m not gonna write my way outta that particular part of the night, so how ‘bout we get it outta the way, yeah?  After the ceremony, I was mercilessly bombarded by people asking me what “toast” I was gonna make to the bride and groom.

 

Thank God you decided to leave out that “frigid” comment.

 

Yes, thank you, sweetie…  Thanks for reminding me that my first draft began something like this: “Phil, I’m really happy for you, especially since your new wife has lost some of the frigidness that caused her and I to part ways so many years ago.”

 

Of course, I’ve never hooked up with Jodi, but I thought that would be funny.  Alas, her parents were there, as were Phil’s, and I had to adlib one of the corniest toasts ever given at a heterosexual wedding that didn’t involve live beavers.

 

Hold up…  After saying the word “Beaver”, Lori conveyed to me that she wanted to- how do you say?  Ah yes, “DO IT!!!” 

 

I actually asked him if he wanted to “fool around”.  He’s such a whore.

 

Either way, I’m gonna have to take a break from writing this story…  Be back in five.

 

More like three.

 

Eighteen Hours Later…

 

It’s now Tuesday afternoon, and we’ve stopped eating, drinking, and having sex long enough to continue.  Where was I?  Oh yeah, dancing.  Part of the after ceremony celebration required each of the groomsman to share a single dance with their respective bridesmaid. 

 

I should’ve beat that bitch’s ass for taking my man!  But the waitress came back with more alcohol... and she was the cute one.

 

Yeah, well, the “bitch” in question was named Kirsta, and she didn’t like me anyway.  The morning before, I arrived at the church or whatever to do the rehearsal, at which time the wedding parties from both families were introduced.  Kirsta came up to me and said, “Hey, Mike!  How ya been?”

 

“Have we met?” I replied, and Kirsta’s face puckered up like she’d just licked skid marks off Bigfoot’s thong.

 

“Uh, several times,” she huffed, then walking away.

 

(Insert theme to Love Boat)

 

Getting back to the dance at the reception, as soon as the song came on, Kirsta went apeshit and started swing dancing like she was in a Gap commercial.  I would’ve been content to stand there and sway, but Kirsta started doing turns and flips and-

 

Your big gay ass is sooo lying!  For those of you that don’t know him, Mike is surprisingly light in the loafers.  I know this because I had my turn after the bitchy bridesmaid.  

 

Well, those carrots weren’t gonna ejaculate themselves.  But Lori did indeed have her turn after Kirsta was finished manhandling me. 

 

Unfortunately, I was later injured attempting to toss a midget over the buffet table.

 

That wasn’t a midget.  That was the six-year-old ringbearer.  Phil called yesterday and said the kid is gonna be okay.  Apparently, spiral fractures aren’t such a big deal at that age.

 

The little bastard had it coming.  He kept looking at me with those wee beady eyes.

 

All and all, things went pretty well at the reception… except that Lori got hit on by the BIGGEST BLACK MAN I HAVE EVER SEEN!!!  He gave her a shameless ass to breasts examination with his eyes, and then pumped is eyebrows in a very subtle, “Wanna fuck?” gesture.  I was genuinely insulted when she told me this, and might’ve actually tried to square off with the guy…  only, I didn’t wanna get my SHIT RUINED!!!

 

This is true.  In fact, later on I accidentally hooked this man with my pashmina. (Mike’s note: for those of you who lack ovaries, a pashmina is a scarf-like thingy that hooks large black men like a fishing lure).  I think he thought it was an African mating ritual or something… and was thus prepared to haul me off into the woods and make mad nasty animal love to me… with his large black penis.  Fortunately, Mike showed up with his small white penis, and all was saved.

 

I have a feeling that any women who read this site will NEVER go out with me, and even if-  Oooooh!

 

Sorry for the break.  I wrapped my legs around Mike and squeezed so hard (don’t ask… it was down and from behind) that he had to stop and go take a shit.  I’m like that woman on James Bond.  I can show you later… if you like.

 

Let me interject here and say that at one point during the reception, I came down with a freakishly huge case of the hiccups.  They were so loud we had to go hang outside amongst the nasty smoking people with tattoos, (Phil and Jodi had lots of dirty hippie friends), and I was no longer suitable for public viewing.  I was, however, suitable to stumble to the buffet table, spear a chicken breast, and slink off to the bathroom to eat like Star Jones the day after gastric bypass surgery.  I returned only nominally less drunk, and ultimately shamed and confused.  Mike was too busy hitting on some other woman to notice.  She was pregnant- very, very pregnant.  He tried to tell me that she was an old friend, and I was like, “Old?  Like, eight months ago old?”  It was at this point I began putting the pashmina on my head and blessing people like I was the Virgin Mary.

 

Okay, I’m back now.  I had to crap a Miata.  And I discovered something as well.  You know how when you eat spicy stuff, it burns your lips and tongue?  Well, it’s the same going in as it is coming out, and since we had hot wings for lunch… yeah, you get the idea.  I had to wipe my ass with a snow cone.

 

That’s about all that happened at the wedding/reception, but I don’t wanna move on to the after-party until I say a few words about the actual exchanging of vows.  The preacher who gave the service was a cluster fuck of an orator.  I would’ve thought he was improvising the whole thing, except that he had notes. 

 

This gray-bearded butt monkey went on and on and on about the most random crap, from the crickets chirping in the nearby woods, to The Lord helping him to tolerate his incontinent wife.  No, I’m not shitting you.  He also had the congregation recite no less than sixteen prayers, before SAYING THE WRONG NAME when the time came.

 

“And you, Jo Ellen Peterson.  Do you take Steven Lomac as your lawfully wedded husband- uh, I mean Phillip!  Do you take PHILLIP Lomac to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

 

I couldn’t make this shit up.

 

Anyway, the after-party was at this hole in the wall called “Skully’s”-

 

Which I can’t tell you much about since I don’t remember being there.

 

Yeah, that’s right.  Lori got hammered and had to be driven back home.

 

This was not my fault.  I’ve decided that half the blame lies in Mike’s functioning alcoholic hands… the other half having to do with the cute, bisexual cocktail waitress at the reception that was up for the fourway.  She was desperately attempting to separate me from my panties.

 

Wait, I’m not wearing panties…

 

And she never does, people.  I went through Lori’s suitcase when she was sleeping, and there’s no underwear of any kind. 

 

I did have ONE pair, but Mike’s been wearing them since Thursday.  I don’t want them back.

 

That last part is a partial fabrication.  I took her crotchless buttfloss off to go swimming.  But, speaking of fabrication, since Lori wasn’t there for the next part of the story, I can pretty much make up whatever I want.  I have a feeling there’ll be ninjas and pirates and me scoring with seven women at once.  We’ll see. 

 

The first thing I wanna talk about is how cool I look in a tuxedo.  Everybody notices you when you’re in formal wear, and I’m no exception.  At one point during the night, I walked up the street to Beirgarden to get cigarettes for one of the other groomsmen, and you would’ve thought that Burt Reynolds was sashaying by.  The jukebox screeched to a halt, a bartender fainted, and a chick in the corner got artificially inseminated just by looking at me.  Needless to say, I said, “Descado…  Mike Descado…” about fifteen hundred times.

 

Okay, so I eventually ran into the bitchy bridesmaid Kirsta again, and pissed her off… again.  I honestly can’t remember what I said to her, but Marty was standing right there, and he just looked at me and said, “Smooth, Mike.  Smooth.”

 

Oh!  Did I mention my cousin Marty was there?  Yeah, he and his wife drove down from Tennessee to show a friend of theirs, Michelle, the gay friendly town of Asheville.  They couldn’t come to the wedding, of course, but they were at the after-party, and Marty and I spoke in “movie lingo” the entire time.  Some people got it.  Most got their asses handed to ‘em.

 

My estranged friend Rene showed off his perpetual inability to drink by getting all emotional and trying to confuse me with statements that didn’t make any sense.  He kept putting his arm around me and saying, “You win, Mike.  You win.”  And when I’d ask what the hell he meant, he’d slur, “You know, man.  You know.” 

 

No, Ass, I DON’T know!  What the fuck’s wrong with you? 

 

Rene’s drunken antics were second only to those of his present girlfriend, (my ex), Becca, who kept telling me that I have a problem, and that she cares about me.  Similar to Rene, she didn’t know exactly what this “problem” was, but she wasn’t gonna let that stop her from helping me through it.

 

I now want to kill myself. 

 

Thanks, Lori…  Lori has just reminded me that this is supposed to be funny, which is why I’m now gonna skip to the part about the ninjas.  As midnight approached, Marty and I found ourselves at a table with his wife and their out-of-town friend, Michelle.  We had just completed a full, two hour quoting marathon from Monty Python’s Holy Grail, when the sound of screaming drew my attention to the entrance.

 

No less than eight individuals in full black ninja attire were punching and kicking their way across the threshold, unsheathed katanas cutting down indiscriminate wedding guests at random.  I would later learn that Lori owed some money to a Japanese Triad group based in Alligator, Mississippi, and that they’d followed her here in an attempt to collect.

 

This is total bullshit.

 

That doesn’t mean it’s not true, Lori!  You weren’t there!  So anyway, Marty and I couldn’t stand by and watch the wholesale slaughter of two hundred or more wedding guests, and we flew into action.

 

Grabbing a stuffed buffalo head off the nearby wall, I ducked and charged the cadre of still-killing ninjas, initially impaling two on the buffalo’s horns, before-

 

Is this going to be over soon?

 

No.  I’m just getting started…  So there I was, ass deep in a whirlwind of flashing blades and fashionable black, when I realize that I’m unarmed and surrounded, (the buffalo head had been used up).  The nearest ninja aimed an expertly timed overhand slash at my head, but I swayed left and caught his sword in my teeth, then elbowing him in the scrotal region.  He toppled back, thus ripping the blade from my teeth.  I didn’t get cut, though, because I use Colgate Total toothpaste, and its “coating” effect lasts for twelve hours.

 

I was on my feet a second later, then grabbing a chair and swinging it from side to side as hard as I could.  Unfortunately, Kirsta had rushed up to bitch at the ninjas for not being on the guest list, and I knocked the living fuck outta her. 

 

The chair exploded against her fake boobs, and then I was left with nothing.  No chair, no buffalo head, no weapons of any kind… or so I thought.

 

The wedding guests were in a frenzy by this time, most of ‘em backing away and screaming amidst the chiming tingle of breaking glass.  This left me the sole target of the ninjas’ attention, and they converged in a circle with swords drawn.

 

I was fucked.

 

And then, a single ray of sunlight stabbed down from the ceiling, (which was freaky, since it was nighttime), and I saw the hulking form of my cousin Marty silhouetted atop one of the bar tables, a dead ninja on the floor nearby.  He had his victim’s katana in his right hand, and in a loud voice called, “PERSEUS!!!”, before tossing the sword into the air.

 

I caught it and proceeded to do battle with the remaining ninjas, thus disemboweling them to the last without getting a single drop of intestinal gore on my tuxedo.  Unfortunately, Marty was stung in the chest by a giant scorpion, and he wasn’t alive to share in the accolades that followed.

 

I’ll miss ya, cuz…

 

On a side note, Lori is now sitting behind me on the couch… eating chicken wings… and drinking beer… and flossing. 

 

Weird.

 

There’s no substitute for good oral hygiene.

 

Yeah, well, you’re lucky you’re fine…  That’s about it for the wedding, which was on Saturday.  I learned Sunday morning, (when Phil and Jodi came over to get my tux), that I walked out on my bar tab of forty something dollars, and that they had to pay for it.  Naturally, I tried to dissuade the newlyweds from reimbursement by reminding them how I saved their parents from dirty, dirty ninjas… and it worked. 

 

Phil let me off the hook, and then gave me a thirty-dollar gift certificate to Barnes and Noble.  Lori wants me to buy some book called, “Vaginas for Dummies”, but I think I’m gonna get the new Anne Rice novel instead.

 

So he can READ about getting laid, instead of actually GETTING laid.

 

That was uncalled for…  Well, I guess that’s about it, boys and girls.  I wish I could tell you that I beat someone’s ass, or set fire to a children’s hospital, but, as always, I can only relate the events as they happened.  Think about it though, isn’t reading about ninjas getting impaled by buffalo horns reason enough to keep logging in?

 

Hey, what about me?

 

Oh yeah…  Lori…  Alas, she’s going back to Mississippi tomorrow, and there’s nothing I can do about it. 

 

“Maybe a nice man will come along and give us a big bag of money.”

 

Lori was quoting Leave it to Beaver, but since no one in our age bracket watches that show, (except for her), I don’t expect you to get it.

 

Fuck you very much!!!

 

Soon, Sweetie…  Soon…  And so this weekend ends not with a bang, but a whimper.  I am, however, deeply smitten by the girl over my left shoulder.  I’m in deep smit, and I have no choice but to write it out since she has wickedly sharp fingernails.

 

It’s too bad that circumstance works the way it does, that geography works the way it does.  I really liked who I was this weekend, even though I hardly moved from the couch.  Sometimes, conversation is more important than exaggerated adventure.  Sometimes, real life is just a little bit better than literary life.

 

Well, if I’d written the alphabet, I would’ve put “U” and “I” closer together.

 

Awww…  That could be the… GAYEST thing I’ve ever heard!!! 

 

Sleep tight, my minions, and remember to invite Lori and I to your next wedding…