WEDDINGS & TRANNIES & BOWLING, OH MY!!!

I loathe weddings as much as the next man with a lower unit longer than his middle finger, but somehow I wound up attending one recently. Oddly enough, I had only been to one wedding in my entire adult life; Peeps I know don’t tend to get married or if they do, they tend to run off like scared little bitches and do it in secret so nobody can object or coat the walkway with cat urine.

The wedding I attended was one I had strong objections to. My very good friend at the time decided she wanted to marry an air force guy to get out of the house and, oh yeah, she loved-ded him. I predicted the demise of their marriage within five years and even predicted how long it would take before she was pregnant. Naturally, I was 100% correct but too disgusted to gloat. I don’t gloat well, especially when it’s about something that causes pain in someone important to me.

But I was right...Nyaaa nyaaa nyaaa nyaaa nyaaa nyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

That’s pretty much how I view marriage in general, so I have successfully avoided them like open rectal sores…until now. Allow me to provide a brief history lesson before describing the carnival freak show that was the wedding:

I will call the two principals Ichabod (as in “Crane” of Sleepy Hollow fame) and Sasquatch (as in missing link), the former being the guy and the latter the um…female? Well, it gave birth so I guess I have to settle for that vague description. These two dated and lived together for a long time. Finally, Sasquatch’s mom said, “You wanna wind up like your sister, in her 40’s and unmarried? Better get pregnant!” Eventually, she listened to mommy's sage advice and got knocked up. Strangely, Ichabod was OK with it. His was an outta sight, outta mind policy. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to marry her and have kids, it was just a matter of being able to provide a life for her similar to the life to which she had become accustomed…a house in the sticks with a color TV, I suppose.

Oddly enough, both of them are professionals. He is a teacher and she has her degree in sociology. So, naturally they are dairy farmers. I can’t make shit like this up! Ichabod is from a farming community in Northern Michigan and is helping his elderly parents maintain the family farm. Sasquatch has been living there with him and helping milk the cows as well.

Ichabod was in a horrible car accident some years back during which his skin was actually detached from his body and lying on the street. The prognosis was grim, to say the least. Some women would have cut and run after making a few requisite trips to the hospital, but Sasquacth stuck by her man and saw him through several horrible skin grafts and lots of physical therapy. True love and all that sort of rot. Still, Ichabod didn’t feel comfortable officially proposing until his life was in order. And as well all know, nobody’s life is ever in order. Years passed. Sasquatch’s sister got older with her live-in boyfriend and nothing changed for her. Soon she was too old to have a baby. Well, maybe not, but her health issues were far too numerous to risk it. Sasquatch followed mommy’s wholesome advice and stopped poppin’ birth control pills.

Ichabod was elated when he was given the news. Gave the kid his eighty syllable German last name and everything. For about a year they continued to live down on the farm with his dad and alcoholic mom until the time came to get their own place. Finally, he decided it was time to get married…way the fuck up in shit-kicker ville!!!

When I first heard about this wedding, I got the date wrong and I thought I had a prior engagement and was understandably giddy to think I’d miss out the social disease/event of the season. Alas, ‘twas not to be and I found myself on a car trip the following week. Don’t get me wrong. I love a grand opportunity for comedy. Later this year this same person’s trannie “sis-bro” will be marrying his/her post-op lover in an outdoor ceremony certain to incur the wrath of all gods past present and science fiction future. However, this wasn’t their moment, so I’d have to settle for seeing them instead.

It was a two-hour trip getting up there and, surprisingly, no fighting took place. As we arrived and realized we had no idea which way to go to get to ”the church,” we asked a kindly redneck and received instructions. With the wedding set to start in less than fifteen minutes, we were very close to running late. We reached the town’s only Catholic…OK, only church within minutes of the travesty…er, wedding starting.

The entire family was assembled outside in preparation for da big day dere. Farmers galore, many dressed up in what her sis-bro later called their “Sunday go to meetin’ clothes,” sporting button down polo shirts and blue jeans with cuffs at the pant legs, filled the outside of the church. Dressed in my white mock turtleneck, black dress pants and sport coat, I must have looked some out producer of Hollyweird moving pitchers!

No lie: The wedding was scheduled for noon because many of the farmers needed to get back for a mid-day cow milkin’ afore the big reception shindig.

The ceremony itself was weird for a non-Catholic to behold. Lots of candle lighting and sitting, standing & kneeling. The priest mentioned dying a lot, which was rather jarring for my companion, whose own Catholic upbringing seems to have completely ignored the darker aspects of the Christian faith. In fact, she was freaked out by all the “doom & gloom.” The vows exchanged, we agreed, were rather lackluster and uninspired, almost as if this were some merely perfunctory exercise in social adherence instead of real protestations of love and devotion.

The most entertaining parts of the ceremony involved the constant hateful glaring of Ichabod’s mom at his bride-to-be and the tranny show happening in the row directly in front of me. When the one post-op tranny stumbled over “her” gunboat-type feet during one of the thousand get up and kneel moments, I nearly lost bladder control and sinned in the house of the Pope....I mean the Lord.

With the wedding over and another cog in the conformity machine well-oiled, we all stood outside the church like lemmings awaiting slaughter and wondered aloud what the hell we were supposed to be doing now. We knew there was a reception to attend but the when was the question. The where was confirmed by sis-bro who pointed at the place across the street where we would me meeting and eating. “She” pointed with her big green talons. Green. Did I say green? OK, just making sure.

I’d heard rumors of where we supposed to be going next but had refused to believe them. Nobody, no matter how much of a hick, would have chosen that on their wedding day. So I put that train of thought out of my mind and followed the gender benders to the hall where foodstuffs awaited our consumption. Eventually, the bride and groom decided to leave for a little while. They’d rented a school bus, a short bus appropriately, and were piling in for a quick road trip. Where, you may ask?

BOWLING!!!

They were going bowling in their wedding attire. And I was pushed into going as well.

So we loaded up the bus and we moved to Beverly…bowling alley, that is. American Legion Hall. Free beer. Trannies in Sundresses.

What I thought was going to be the stupidest time I’d had in months would turn out to not only that but pretty fucking funny as the trannies got in on the bowling and hilarity ensued.

To be continued…down to the cee-ment pond!!!

Ya’ll come back now, y’hear?