I have even reenacted various moments for a select few of the ceremony, which have left me groaning in pain as I flip backwards in a fake drunken swagger. Yes…swagger.
My parents have already said that if I even attempt to make this dream wedding come to forewishen they will not pay…let alone attend. They said they’d be “disgraced.” Bitch please; I’m the epitome of grace.
But that’s cool I can rent a dad to walk me down the aisle… a black one.
Here are the basics: I want to be obliterated, stumbling down the aisle, with a bouquet of Keystone Light cans. Not that I like Keystone Light, I just think it’s a well-known staple in any white-trash life-style.
I plan on ripping about 10-27 shots of Malibu (I’m a pussy, I know) with the bridal party moments before the ceremony begins.
“Low rider” will be blaring in the Catholic Church, preferable with George Lopez jumping on a trampoline in the faint distance. Kegs spray-painted like tires will line the aisles. Each keg will have a ten-foot pole. (Don’t worry it will make sense in a second.)
My bridesmaids will be forced to dance on top of every pole they pass; while each groomsmen throws monopoly money or condoms at them. But not me, I’m too classy for that.
I will be staggering two steps behind my friends screaming obscenities such as, “I’m not a virgin!” or “I had sex with that guy (pointing to the groom)…and that guy (pointing to the best man)…” or my ultimate favorite (pointing to my who-hah), “Why does it burn down there?!”
At one point I hope to fall flat on my face, and pretend to be unconscious. But I probably won’t be “pretending” since I just ripped 27 shots. I will stay on the ground for 3 minutes, then jump up miraculously and scream, “I just got hammered with Jesus!”
Now, at this point in the ceremony, I’m assuming the priest will try to attempt to stop my fairytale moment for some ungodly reason like sobriety, or some stupid shit like that. But I will have already bribed him with male hookers; sodomy saves the day once again!
By this time I will have vomited on my off-white (who am I fooling) Juicy Couture pantsuit, strictly for the elastic waistband. (I’m assuming I will have gained an exponential amount of weight by the time I get married).
The look of love on my soon to be husband’s face, will again procure vomit from my black hole of a mouth.
We shall say our “I-do’s” and my husband will be forced to kiss my vomit-drenched mouth. And when you see me I’ll be laughing at the world…slipping on my own vomit, but laughing nonetheless.