Non-traditional Wedding, by Mick Shaffer

A beautiful April day on the Plains rewarded the decision to hold an outdoor wedding. The red and white ceremony colors blended in beautifully with Spring’s backdrop. Even the best man’s name was Pierre. Beautiful.

A string quartet played (on CD, but still) the traditional processional music as the big city bride glided down the aisle arm-in-arm with her farmer father who had raised her so well. His eyes were aglow with pride.

Then the father’s cell phone rang.

“Hello? No, I done took those bushels to the Co-op already. Hey, can I give you a call back? Ashlea’s getting married.”

And it was on.

{Pastor}
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today amongst family and friends…and people like Pierre…to celebrate the joining into holy matrimony of Brian McDowell and Angie Grafchigger. Why would we do that? I don’t know. Nobody knows. They’ve been married already. One time was in 2003 in Vegas when they were hopped up on corn alcohol and horse tranquilizers…and then again last week in Colorado.

The first eleven and the last seven words of the pastor’s introduction were true. The couple had officially been hitched the Friday prior in their home city of Denver. But the guests — literally, almost the entire town of Argonia, KS — were just learning of this now. In addition, it was dawning on them (in case the pre-wedding happy hour and open bar didn’t tip them off) that they were in the midst of witnessing an increasingly popular event: the non-traditional wedding.

{Pastor}
So let the ceremony begin! Marriage is a supreme sharing of experience and an adventure in the most intimate of human relationships. It is the joyous union of two people whose comradeship and understanding has flowered into a…mutual disdain for one another.

Ok, in case you’re confused as to why I would be writing about such blasphemy it’s because, ahem, I was the pastor. And the wedding I was officiating involved my wife’s very crazy and very fun cousin getting married to the crazy-fun male version of herself. Where they got this idea, I don’t know. It could’ve easily sprouted from a common Denver herbal habit (“Dude, I got an idea that will make your mom hate me for life. Plus…there’s an orange goat in the corner of the room.”). As for why they chose me, I have a theory.

I’d like to read a stanza from the poet Brian Johnson, “She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean, she was the best damn woman that I’ve ever seen.” We should all think about those words carefully on this glorious day.

You see, there has been one Hollywood actor spawn from my 1200 person hometown. His name was Max Showalter. His biggest role was as one of the grandpas (Grandpa Fred) in Sixteen Candles. A refresher course…

Grandma Helen: “Oh Sam, let me take a look at you. Fred, she’s gotten her boobies.”
Grandpa Fred: “I better get my magnifying glass. Ha Ha Ha.”

I think we can all agree Grandpa Fred took Long Duk Dong to acting school with that performance! Anyway, Max is dead. Thus, I – employed as I am on television – am a sad, distant, default second-place for stunts like tongue-in-cheek faux-weddings.

Ashlea and Brad have only been dating for 27 years. They met in a haystack just outside a Tears for Fears concert. Brad was 35 at the time…Ashlea was 9. Brad was working as a blacksmith at the time. Ashlea was making shoes in Thailand. Their love blossomed from that first illegal kiss. Despite their different backgrounds—Ashlea a farm girl from Argonia, home of our country’s first woman mayor and, Brad, a city girl from Topeka, home of our country’s worst crime-rate—despite those differences they decided to become one…a scant 6 decades after they met.

Just to make it clear. This actually happened…in front of a couple hundred people…many of them my own in-laws. I say this because months later I’m still shaking my head. Similarly, at the time I was nervous as hell. Oh, it sounded like such a grand idea in January when we were scripting it out. But come D-Day, the “I’m not supposed to be doing this” demons crept in. Kind of like Eddie Murphy and “Party All The Time,” I’m sure.

I remember our pre-marital counseling sessions. You weren’t invited, Brad. Just Ashlea. I remember Ashlea remarking on how Brad a) had a job and b) wasn’t gay. And that was good enough for her. And I remember Brad turning to me at his bachelor party when he was sandwiched between the Spanish donkey and the midget stripper. And he said, “Unhgsdfh” (nonsense). And that’s when I knew they were meant to be together.

We probably should’ve thought this through. Sure you have your old college buddies and long-lost high school friends at your wedding. But mostly you have 85-year-old relatives. And they sit in the front row. Now, there are a few things 85-year-old relatives don’t get:

1) that there are a second and a third syllable to the word “Japanese”
2) that Bugle Boy jeans are no longer a fashionable Christmas gift
3) the redeeming value of random Will Ferrell-type jokes about Spanish donkeys and midget strippers

I was learning that third one on the fly.

Amber, would you take Blake’s hand? Blake, will you have this woman to be your wedded wife?

(The betrothed are actually named Ashlea and Brad but for the sake of laughs I referred to them on randomly close but different terms throughout.)

It was this type of humor that was slowly but unsurely seeping into the crowd. And who can blame them? I mean, years or decades or — in the case of “Nanna” — epochs of attending traditional weddings are a hard habit to break. The rules are simple: You’re quiet. You suffer through bad songs. You pretend to laugh when the groomsmen pretend to not know where the ring is. You say nice things about the bride and the flower girl and the ring bearer no matter how many fits all of them may throw. You then drink your liver into the shade of charcoal while making bad decision after bad decision all night long at the reception.

Then repeat after me. I, Brock McConaghey, promise to put up with your ridiculously long pauses in the middle of sentences and stories…
{Brad repeats}
I promise not to make fun of you in public for the way you pause like William Shatner…
{Brad repeats}
I promise not to be totally grossed out by the way you chew your fingernails, clearly one of the most disgusting habits there is…
{Brad repeats}
But I also promise to remind you that you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me…
{Brad repeats}
And I also promise to care for you, respect you and love you from this day forward…
{Brad repeats}

Here we go. Once the others joined in (the father-of-the-bride wheat price stunt long forgotten by now, replaced by disturbing thoughts of their beloved Ashlea on horse tranquilizers), the guests determined it was safe to let loose. And, of course, by then I was defining “let loose” as “courtesy laugh.” On the other hand, the wedding party and myself were nearly in tears. For those in their late 20’s and early 30’s with beer already in them and shots already awaiting them, taking a piss on the institution of marriage is about as good as it gets.

April, will you have this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?
{Ashlea}
I will.
{Pastor}
Then repeat after me. I, Alissa Knobsticker, promise to put up with you hawking loogies in the sink and then leaving them there…
{Ashlea repeats}
I promise not to bring up that that is a FAR worse habit than chewing fingernails…
{Ashlea repeats}
I promise to believe you when you say you’re coming home after finishing this beer…
{Ashlea repeats}
I promise not to get too mad when you come home four hours later…
{Ashlea repeats}
I also promise to be your BFF…
{Ashlea repeats}
And I also promise to care for you, respect you and love you from this day forward…

See how we would occasionally bring it back to level? Just like M.A.S.H. A little Corporal Klinger. A little mortar shell from the North Koreans.

By now, we were rolling. People, along with our own consciences, had accepted that whatever came out of our mouths was going to be a mockery of ourselves, a mockery of weddings, or usually both. And whether it was due to their own accepting hearts or due to the right amount of Canadian whiskey before the ceremony, finally, the crowd was all for it.

I’d like to read from the book of…D-E…That’s right, I’ve been holding an encyclopedia the whole time [instead of a Bible]. “Dinosaur – large, extinct reptile.” And, “Earlobe – the pendent part of the ear of humans or some domestic chickens.”

God, I’m a douchebag.

Before we present the rings, if there is anyone here opposed to this marriage, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.
{John}
(yells) I’m against it!
{Pastor}
Ok, John, why?
{John}
(making his way to the altar)
Because I’m in love!
{Pastor}
That’s disgusting, John, she’s your cousin.
{John}
No, not with her. With him. (John then plants a huge kiss on Brad’s lips.)
{Pastor}
No, no, I won’t allow that. Find someone else. Have a seat. (John sits) You two can still get married.

Regrettably, the gratuitous man-love didn’t actually happen (at least not at this point in the night). It was in the script but Ashlea nixed it the day of the wedding. Thank goodness. I think we had already done enough to successfully punch our ticket to hell.

As the “ceremony” wound down and we all relaxed and were having fun I remember thinking two things. First, “I haven’t been in a fight since the 6th grade but there is an aunt in the third row ready to whip my ass.” Second, “I will never forget this wedding.”

Do we have the rings? These rings are a symbol of the unbroken circle of love. And they go on the one next to the naughty finger.

I guess that’s the point, isn’t it? If you want memories that will last for a lifetime, you better make some memories that will last for a lifetime. I can tell you lots of stuff from my own wedding, like the girl I married, the people there, the date, the smell of my best man’s breath. Basically everything but the songs. But few in attendance could recall much about it. It was 20 minutes. In a brown church. Just like dozens of others they’ve attended. But I can recount nearly every step of Angie and Brock’s, I mean…Ashlea and Brad’s wedding (and I believe I just did) and not just because I was the sacrilegious ass on stage.

With absolutely no authority vested in me by the state of Kansas, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may sloppily kiss the bride!

(Ashlea and Brad kiss)

{Pastor}
Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, Steve and Wilma Turlington!

It turned out well. Ashlea and Brad are still married. Seven whole months! No elderly in-laws attempted to rack me with their walkers. And no real video exists of the event. (My wife videotaped it but produced the kind of shaky video from a distance that only wives can produce.) The wedding DJ chastised us for not letting him in on the gag. He said he would’ve brought along his entire arsenal of cameras and turned it into a Youtube legend, like the wedding whose bridal party danced down the aisle. But considering Youtube legends are usually the most inauspicious of videos, I’ll pass.

Besides, I already got another gig. Yes, next August I will once again be officiating a wedding without any power vested in me. What I’ve heard so far is “[I'm not supposed to say]” and “[Really, I'm going to get in trouble if I tell you].”

Seriously. And, yes, it is another one of my wife’s cousins.