Post for 6/20/2014

I have attended many weddings.  I’ve been told I even attended my own, but I leave that for the conspiracy junkies out there.  I just deal in facts.  That and satire, but mostly satirical facts.  Weddings are life changing events since I get to eat free for just bringing a condolence card for the bride or the groom, or their pet.  That being said, have you ever wondered what a wedding would be like if they allowed corporate sponsorships?    No?  Me neither until I had this prompt about thinking what would happen to an event if an evil corporate force took it over.  Why only one evil corporate force?  I give you value my dear reader and expand your evil corporate forces to at least five to ten.  So I propose to you this is how weddings will be paid for in somewhere between ten years to fifteen thousand years

Let me set the scene.  One of my daughters comes to me excitedly waving a letter.  Which daughter is up to you, or it could be your daughter or son.  I collect daughters, having successfully appropriated five of them over the past eleven years or so.  What can I say, I am a ladies man.  Anyway, we will say her name is Sariah since I haven’t collected one of those yet (but I am writing a story about a Sariah that you can find in a first draft in progress here).


 

Sariah comes in waving a letter.  “Dad, it’s official.  I’m getting married.”

I look up from my diorama devoted to mashed potatoes through the ages.  “That’s nice dear, but I have some bad news for you.”

“What is it, Dad?”

“I can’t afford for you to get married,” I say.  “These dioramas are not selling like hotcakes as I had hoped.”  I smash both hands through the middle ages moldy potato and Spam gothic chapel.  “That’s it.  I should make the mashed potato dioramas out of hotcakes.”  I smile broadly at her as I begin to talk with my hands, flinging moldy mashed potatoes and Spam at her.  “There is hope for you yet Deidre.”

Sariah looks at the moldy potato and Spam on her blouse and shakes her head.  “Dad, I’m Sariah.”

“I just said you have hope.  You don’t need to be sad,” I reply.  I worry about this generation.  They always seem depressed.

“I’m not sad,” Sariah continues, but I don’t believe her.  “I’m happy,” she says.  “We found enough corporate sponsors to cover the whole thing.”

“Corporate sponsors?” I ask.  “I’m surprised they picked you since you can’t seem to keep your food off your shirt.”  Sariah gives me the ‘Look of Dead Dad’.  I decide to play along before it becomes the action of ‘Dead Dad’ or ‘Screaming, Crying Dad’ which means my wife evokes the ‘No Fun in the Sack, Dad’.  “Who is covering what, Deidre?”

Sariah places the letter close by, but shielded from any potato Spam fallout from the pieces still decorating the ceiling.  “First off we have the ushers who get to wear sausage suits with the Oscar Meyer logo.  Next we have the mother’s march by Ugg boots.  We just need to get the mom’s to pick out what colors and wear short enough dresses to show them off. “

I decide to interject, because that is what dads do. “Your mother-in-law in a short dress?  That could cause an international incident.”

That brings Sariah up short.  “Oh, well maybe we can find a pant suit that will fit inside the boot.  Yeah that might work.”  I smile encouragingly.  No need to have me be the bearer of bad news on how horrible that idea was.  That’s why she has her mother.  Sariah continues.  “We will have the giving away of the bride by K-Mart.”

I get excited.  “Do I get to wear a blue light special hat?” I ask.  “That would be awesome!”

Sariah stamps her foot.  Some Spam and potatoes fall off her shirt.  “Dad, I am not a blue light special!” she screeches.

I smile and pat her cheek with my potato and Spam encrusted hand.  “You will always be my blue light special, Deirdre, because I love you.”

Sariah steps back and shakes her head.  More potatoes and Spam drop off.  It is amazing how much was getting around my workspace.  I need to remember to not work in quantities over twenty five pounds in the future.  Of course hotcakes should be less dense and therefore lighter by default.”

“Are you listening to me?” Sariah asks.

I look at my daughter and nod.  Yep, she is definitely moving toward the ‘Screaming, Crying Dad’.  “Of course Deidre, please continue.”

Sariah picks up the letter wiping away even more potatoes and Spam.  “Budweiser is sponsoring the “I do of the day”™.  They just want a thirty second ad played on a large screen behind us.  I got to pick the Clydesdale ad where the horses cry beer when the duck flies to the guy who trained it since it hatched.  I’m always moved when the trainer says ‘You had me at quack’.”

My daughter actually tears up.  I try to give her a tissue, but since, well you know by now, she refuses it.

“So then we move to the Citibank Ring Exchange as long as we include the phrase, ‘What is in your wallet, and on your finger?’.  Lastly we have the recessional sponsored by Mylanta.”

At this I burst out laughing.  “Let me guess, your honeymoon is sponsored by Viagra?” I ask.

This earns me another stomp.  “Dad, get serious.  Gavin doesn’t need Viagra.”

“And how do you know that?” I ask.  See, I am paying attention.

“Dad!”

“It is a legitimate question, Deidre,” I say.  “I am your father.”

Sariah ignores me.  “The honeymoon is sponsored by Baby R Us,” she says.

I shake my head.  “I’m going to contact Trojan or Bayer to see if they can make a counter offer.”

“Bayer?” she asks.  “Do they make birth control?”

“They might,” I reply, “but I was thinking for the aspirin I am going to need when you bring a baby over.”

Sariah stomps her foot again.  I can see this is not going well.  I decide to ask a different question.  “What about the reception afterward?”

“We don’t have anyone yet,” she said.  “Do you have any ideas?”  Sariah looks at me with those big pale blue eyes.  I would do anything for those eyes.

“I have an idea, but it is a bit unorthodox,” I say.  She nods her head in encouragement.  I take a deep breath and continue.  “We can serve hotcakes.”

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