I can't be any more specific as to what that last post was about because that would be even meaner than it already is and it's already pretty fucking mean.
So let me dish some dirt on the wedding instead.
There is no dirt to dish. Priests are cunts. We knew this. Even if the bride and groom are happy to indulge in all manner of stinking hypocrisy so that they might get hitched in a pretty torture porn emblazoned building (and more power to them, do what you gotta do), don't expect the rest of us to join in your Christing ritual responses. We've moved on from that goobledegook, didn't you know? And seriously dude, it don't matter how many times you say 'Lord have mercy', I'm not going to be saying it back. And while I have you, would you mind shutting the fuck up about Jesus being responsible for the peace process and get on with marrying the lovely couple? Beard Boy is responsible for the peace but not all the maiming and death that went before, you say. The fuck does that work? Don't answer that. Just shut the fuck up and let me start drinking.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of gradual drunkenness, acceptable food, and some low-grade but breathtakingly consistent hostility. Some of us need to grow the fuck up and get over it, if you want my opinion. And if you're here, you do. To misquote the man: 'I don't like it any more than you do.'
But yeah, that was that. But hold up there, because this was this:
We're walking out the door of Mother in Common Law's, having dropped off the Bridge Crew and done the goodbyes, when Data pipes up from the kitchen door.
'Don't forget to marry Daddy!'
Yeah, pretty fucking funny, huh? But when, in unison, we replied, 'What did you say?' the expression on our faces must have been enough to make her change her story. 'Uh, don't forget to dance with Daddy.'
Common Law complied with one of these requests. I'll let you fucking genii work out which one.