The wedding happens on Thanksgiving day. Oh, did you have a “family thing?” No, it’s cool. I guess only the friends who really care about us will be there. It’s fine.
I walk down the aisle to “Dude Looks Like a Lady.” This should give people a nice moment of “Wait, is she…yeah, she’s serious, I guess?”
The wedding is officiated by Kelsey Grammar IF he’s available. If not (like if he’s filming his hit show Bosses or whatever it’s called, I don’t know, I don’t have HBO), then we can Skype him in. There will be no substitutes. It’s either Grammar or nothing for this broad.
My dress is alternately described as “a stunning display of the grotesque” and “a touchingly macabre tribute to the works of Clay Aiken.”
Vows are taken from Bruce Vilanch’s autobiography, Bruce!.
Reception is held in a high school gymnasium.
Our first dance is the entirety of David Lynch’s Crazy Clown Time. Whenever anyone attempts to leave, the Hells Angels I hired for security herd them back to their seats. No one questions them because remember that Rolling Stones show?
For cocktails I have a bottle of vodka. Did you bring a mixer? No? Then sorry, you’re drinking straight vodka. Listen, I just got married, I can’t be worrying about what you’re going to drink.
Instead of cake I have a giant bucket of whipped cream. Everybody help yourselves, or don’t. I don’t care. It’s not my job to feed you.
I guess I’ll order some pizzas if you guys are still hungry.
The rest of the night we dance to the Mulan soundtrack. Anyone who isn’t dancing is forcibly convinced to dance by the Hells Angels, who grow increasingly angry as the night wears on.
I only reserved this gymnasium until 11:30, so I’m gonna need you guys to help me clean. Pick up the pace. We’re low on time here.