Family, friends, come one and all.

So. The Lawng Guyland Wedding Weekend. Where to begin.

Well, I guess the moment I realized we weren’t in Kansas anymore was the moment I walked into the chapel, after having been informed that the dress was “black suit,” (I guess a dressed-down version of black tie?) and immediately encountered several large men outfitted in frayed denim shorts and ripped t-shirts.

“That’s odd,” thought I, in my nicely tailored and freshly pressed semi-formal attire.

But then I noticed one of them moving chairs around, and another setting up something on the altar, and I thought that maybe, just maybe, they were staff. Or something. (Do churches even have staffs?)

They weren’t on staff. They were, in fact, wedding attendees. And don’t think this fashion statement was relegated solely to the male guests (some of whom had mullets). Oh no. A woman or two were also so dazzlingly bedecked.

Now don’t get me wrong: I’m all for casual and informal weddings. If I were ever to get married (that may just be the funniest thing I’ve ever written) I’d probably do it barefoot, on a beach somewhere, in swim trunks and a t-shirt. So I could totally get down with this casual approach to nuptials. If anything, I was jealous that they were able to let it all hang out (and hang out it did—did I mention they were really fat? More on that later...) while I sat, constricted, in my penguin suit. Since, you know, we had been informed how to dress. Not to mention the fact that the entire wedding party was decked out as formally as ever.

And then the heckling started.

Nope, not kidding. This wedding actually had hecklers. Maybe I’ve just led a relatively sheltered existence, but having been to my share of weddings, I’ve never experienced wedding heckling before. For real. People were actually responding to what the priest was saying with caustic and sarcastic comments. And the worst thing was, they were, like, totally obvious, unfunny comments. Not witty at all. You know, the kind of heckling that would make a stand-up comedian cringe on stage and think, “So these are the type of people my comedy appeals to... Do I really even have to expend the energy necessary to respond to this?”

When it came time for the groom to recite his vows, I shit you not, someone actually called out, “Last chance to back out!”

I’m telling you, the drinking could not start fast enough. Unfortunately, there were several hours to kill between the ceremony and the reception.

Standing around outside the chapel, waiting for the rituals of birdseed-chucking and picture-taking to commence, we passed the time by getting to know the five-month-old daughter of the bride and groom. She was, seriously, a beautiful little girl. Truly gorgeous, and a dream child in that she was willingly passed from stranger to stranger all day and night, never uttering so much as a dissatisfied peep.

At one point, a fellow wedding guest remarked on the beauty of this little angel, and before I could stop the flow of words cascading up out of my throat and toward my mouth, I actually responded, “Don’t worry, in a decade or two she’ll be fat and trashy just like the rest of her family.” Oops.

And then, the reception.

Have you ever been openly flirted with by a member of your extended family? I have now. And it makes you feel just as dirty as you imagine it would.

But the drinks were top-shelf and flowed like water, the food was amazing, the dancing provided endless entertainment, and as previously noted, it was honestly a great (and rare) opportunity to catch up with many a loved one.

Later.

As I approached my hotel, I saw a sight that I struggle to even put into words. A sight that, at the time, caused me to question whether or not I was dreaming, and that now is shrouded in such a haze of disbelief that I truly wonder whether it actually happened or if maybe it was some sort of booze- or exhaustion-fueled mirage of the uniquely Lawng Guyland variety. A sight that had me, desperately, trying to figure out a way to discreetly employ my digital camera in a covert attempt at documenting that which was before me without simultaneously raising the ire of my subjects. Because believe you me, these were not subjects whose ire I had any desire to raise. Surely I would not have lived to tell this tale.

Standing before me, in the foyer of my Plainview...hotel?...was a pair of what I can only describe as Ladies of the Night that exist to serve the surreptitious (and substantial) needs of the love child of Jabba the Hut and Ronald McDonald. Picture it: huge bodies squeezed into tight, short, green...dresses? Skirts? Onesies? I don’t know the terminology. Topped off by even huger shocks of bright red hair. Matching lipstick. Chins and rolls as far as the eye can see. And standing between them, one solemn, threatening, guido type. Their pimp? A (satisfied/dissatisfied) customer? A hotel employee attempting to eject them? No one looked particularly pleased, and as I shuffled past them I tried not to look too bewildered or stare too hard with my jaw dropped too low. But come on, no one has that kind of self control. No one.

As I made my way to my room, I crossed that line from stunned silence into raving, maniacal, unstoppable laughter. As I write this, I think I’m still suffering from mild post-traumatic stress disorder.

Truly the perfect, perfect end to my perfect Lawng Guyland Wedding Weekend.