I would ardently like to evince my sincere gratitude to everyone who sent me condolences at the news of my recent divorce from (in)sapid socialite Kim Kardashian, who, even though she tortuously tweeted and texted incessantly during the wedding ceremony itself ( When I volleyed out the plenary ‘I do,’ I swear she verbally retorted in high pitched glittery feminine falsetto, “Mountain Dew, too.” while swiveling her porcelain chin into her lithe shoulder blade like an empty windmill before stating, “I know, right?”) will always be considered the unalloyed love of my life. For all of my dear friends’ in the mid-west unable to attend the wedding ceremony 72 days ago, a brief synopsis follows:
The beach side Los Angeles wedding convened with the coifed comb over of Justin Bieber who was requested by the bride herself to pay homage to this great plutocratic nation of ours by singing the national anthem in front of a bevy of chicly-attired millionaires in attendance to which he did nothing but blather out the fourth vowel of the alphabet followed by the word “Canada” making me feel like my nuptial nosedive was nothing more than the prelude to a hockey game—a portent which perhaps proved all too apt. Lindsay Lohan served as the flower girl who, in lieu of errantly tossing petals, lost several sallow-flavored teeth en route to the altar and then began making little olfactory cocaine-withdrawal snorting sounds granting her with the unsavory semblance of an emaciated sow awaiting slaughter
The bridesmaid’s were ravishing as they seemingly floated down the aisle adorned in florescent Versace drapes of couture glory with the exception of Lady Gaga who was wearing some sort of outfit that resembled a Christmas tree constructed out of expired slabs of turkey bacon which smelled just like the outside of the White castle where I lost my virginity in the back of a chevette junior year of high school to scarlet haired vocabulary-vixen Melissa Palomino (We were members of the high school thespian society and ironically just finished opening night of YOU CAN’T TAKE IT WITH YOU) . Maid of honor Paris Hilton was equally as stunning only she forgot to brandish her bridesmaid bouquet which was stylishly supplanted, holding a cell phone in front of her like an unlit candle at an AIDS vigil, looking down into the forehead of her late-80’s gameboy shaped Blackberry snapping pictures of her self in medias stride while tweeting (later I read, via her status update on facebook) “OMG!!! Kant blive Im actualie walking down isle of Dave and Kim’s wedding!!! THEY OUR SEW CUTE!! OMG!!!OMG!!!OMGGGG!!!”
(Smiley face)
Since my best friends from the Midwest John and Mike were too busy drinking beer and watching the Whitesox topple out of playoff contention I employed Ashton Kutcher, Dr. Conrad Murray and Simon Cowell as makeshift groomsmen (Cowell being the only one who overtly objected during the ceremony snidely stating that the jigsaw-configured poultry constituting Lady Gaga’s attire would last formidably last longer in various shrink-wrapped incarnations than this marriage of so called true-minds). Prior to the ceremony the esteemed Dr. Conrad gave me several superficial slaps on the back fare-thee-well bachelorhood jabs informing me that he could prescribe something under the table if-you-know-what-I-mean to help get me through this only the medication might incur several nauseating side effects such as moon-like rendering seizures, solitary glove syndrome associated with new-found tax-bracket Alzheimers and possibly death.
I have to confess that the bride, the love of my life, Kim Kardashian looked like a pillar of angelic light as she floated down the stem of the aisle draped in a 400,000 dollar ivory gown. In fact she looked like everything I had ever wanted in a human being. As I looked at my future spouse encroaching the altar, awaiting for the moment our eyes would somehow slip into each others optical purview like a French kiss, I noticed that she too was holding a cell phone instead of the traditional botanical torch doing something with her thumbs resembling rapid involuntary twiddling.
The ceremony was delicate and svelte although I felt that I was the only one really pay attention to everything the minister (ted Dibiase, former Million Dollar Man wrestler turned preacher) was saying about love being something sacred and eternal and having to do with some sort of metaphysical wished-for fetter, finding the others pulse in every sunset and every smile. I kept looking at Kim tweeting (or twatting, a la Kathy Griffin) only I felt that she wasn’t paying much attention to the gravity of the ceremony. Like she was somehow afraid that something magical might transpire between us as dual viable human beings who have somehow, after 4 billion years of evolution, somehow found each other in this vacuum of time-space-reality and have decided to partake on this bubble of here-and now together as one being, if she would, if only for a second, stop looking into the nylon tint of her phone and float into my eyes.
Like the sight of my eyes could ferry her someplace she had never been before.
Twice, during the ceremony I looked at best man and fellow Midwesterner Ashton Kutcher waiting to see if I was perhaps being punked.
In strict almost occult-like accordance with Hollywood diets the food at the reception consisted entirely of what appeared
to be tofu-nuggets and various vegan platters ( a paparazzi caught me trying to filch a slab of turkey bacon off of Lady Gaga’s top, later disseminating that I couldn’t even wait until after the wedding ceremony was completed to carry on with my philandering) . Since all the beer served boasted things like only having 64 calories on the label, I had ordered a Keg of beamish and a pony keg of MOOSE DROOL (fine Montana russet-streamed ale) only when I poured myself two pints and began double-fisting I was accosted by Candy Finigan of INTERVENTION renown who stated that I had a problem and that I was in denial by employing copious amounts of alcohol to hide from certain hardcore and uncomfortable facets of reality. I look around at all my guests bent over into their cell phone tapping their thumbs and saying things like, “I know, right” as if it were the rosary and then hard-core slam the two quality beverages in front her cardboard-saturated visage before punctuating it with a beatific burp.
In the mens room I saunter into Charlie Sheen with his nose pressed against the parabolic lid of the toilet seat doing some sort of tribal dance while sounding like he is stuffed up. While standing splayed legged over the urinal I am accosted by R &B legend Ray J and some guy dressed in a bad 80’s tux from VIVID entertainment offering me enormous amounts of money if they could video tape the tantric silhouette-shaped contours of the incumbent honeymoon suite. As I give the virile baton constituting my virility an earnest shake and told them that I felt that some experiences I just wanted to share with one person and not promulgate to the bulk of humanity via visual dissemination, I remembered that I wanted to say something important to my new wife in front of all our friends. I rush out of the Mens room, pour myself another vat of Beamish and lift it in the air. I then look at my wife and begin quoting Shakespeare, sonnets about love being forever and eternal. Love not altering when its alterations find. Love being an ever-fixed mark.
As I look around I notice that everyone in the audience is tapping into the front of their phones I somehow recall that the poem by Shakespeare was the same poem I quoted to Melissa Palomino, the girl I lost my virginity to in the back of the chevette behind the White castle . I think about the moment I entered the damp welcoming spring-like southern hemisphere of her body and the sound her lips contorted and made, as if we were leaving the port of reality together, slowly as one, not sure where the future would find us or where we would perhaps ever decide to go only that our limbs would plough into it together taping off into desired nothingness, not being able to imagine what the future must be like, being able to see everything we have ever wanted to see and know everything we have ever wanted to know ensconced in the mitten-paw of our coital-corsage shaped hands and then gone.
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