The Wedding Post – Version 2.0.

After a solid week of fighting the flu, I awoke in my Grandparent’s den at 7am on Saturday. In less than nine hours, I was to officiate my very first wedding in front of 100 people.

As soon as I got up from the couch, I took a photo of myself to document this joyous occasion.

Ruh-Roh, I'm still sick.
(Censored for your protection. I was a mess.)

I had to get better, fast.

I had slept for about 18 minutes the night before. For one, I was terrified of what sort of fools I would make the bride and groom to be; as well as what I could do to further throw myself down the ladder of respect within my family.

It was about 80 degrees in the den, so my sleep was ravaged with sweaty nightmares and subconscious ramblings. I kept thinking I didn’t have the ceremony written down or I had to add something very important at the last minute. For a second, I actually thought that God was making me sick on purpose because He didn’t want me to pretend to be religious. He knew I didn’t practice an organized religion or go to church, so perhaps a few stray viruses my way would set me straight.

Fortunately for the happy couple (and unfortunately for my mortal soul), I fought through that crap.

The Backyard.The Tent.

The setting was the backyard of the happy couple, and it was quite beautiful. My mom had taken her duties as Wedding Planner to the next level, creating a fantastic landscape and comfortable area for said wedding. There was even a deluxe Port-A-Potty. Very posh.

Too bad it was 800 degrees out. It was three hours before showtime and we were plowing through sunscreen and Deep Woods Off! like it was going out of style.

A Flower of Some Sort.Nother Tent.

As the wedding party scrambled around, setting things up before the guests arrived, I poured over my script for the millionth time, making sure it was exactly the way I wanted it.

Scriptin' It Up.

I’ve done public speaking before, and I’m decent enough at it when I have to be. It’s not like I prefer it or anything; it’s just that people naturally assume that I’d be comfortable addressing a room full of people for some reason. This probably has something to do with me essentially doing it every day on this page. However, real life doesn’t have a Backspace button. So, if I were to get up on the podium and start swearing or wet my pants, that would pretty much be the end of it.

In the end, I just have to trust my material. I don’t like to ad-lib very much and go off-course; I like to know exactly what I’m going to say and how I’m a-gunna say it. Makes me feel safe.

I didn’t feel safe today.

Before I knew it, guests were taking their seats and the Missus was straightening my tie. I honestly remember my own wedding as less stressful; it probably had something to do with the heat. My wrists were sweating through my shirt, which cannot possibly be a normal and healthy thing.

I'm Going To Hell.
(I’m behind the podium, yo. Also, that’s the groom with the flower girl, NOT his bride.)

At the start, I was standing up there alone in front of everyone. I could feel them judging me with their eyes. “Why are you up there? You’re a fraud. A fraud.”

I thought I was going to throw up, so I stepped down just as the music started playing. The wedding party emerged, laughing and happy as can be. I saw how genuinely excited and laid back they were about this, and I couldn’t help but share their sentiments. After all, hiring me was their idea; they wanted me there for one reason or another, so I just had to do what I did best.

“So, do you want to get married?” I asked them as they reached the podium.

15 minutes later, it was over. Everyone was applauding and crying, and the bride and groom were embracing each other as husband and wife. It was something I never expected to be a part of, and probably will never forget. From what everyone told me, things sounded perfect and everyone did a fantastic job. I took their word for it, because I couldn’t think properly.

The Best Man looked at me and said, “Can we get trashed now?”


Good Jorb, Wedding Planner.

Things got a little blurry, so here are nine things of interest that happened at the reception:

1. At least 4 kegs were drained. My family comes from a long line of drinkers, and they didn’t fail to impress. I drank a wine cooler, as I am a stunning pansy sometimes.

2. At some point in the evening, the bride and groom hopped into the flatbed of a truck and sped to the nearest bar for a shot. They didn’t return for at least 45 minutes. We contemplated stealing their television.

3. My mom tells me that the truck that drove them to said bar had a DVD player in it that was airing a porno flick.

4. While the bride and groom were gone, someone stole money from the many cards they received. The suspicion was that a drug-addicted friend of the family made off with the loot. Yup.

5. I got a taste of what it was like to be a Holy man, in that nobody wants to party with you. A lot of the people there didn’t know me, and assumed that this was what I did for a living. Therefore, everyone sidestepped around me, hid their beer and didn’t swear. This got very annoying after a while, but I embraced the unexpected respect.

6. Sometime during the night, a fight broke out. Death threats were made, hearts were broken and punches were almost thrown. I was sound asleep by this point in time.

Drink Eight Glasses Of Water A Day.
(I’m not fat.)

7. As I was sitting at a table with my wife and mom, my mom noticed a kid playing by one of the rock gardens. She said, “I think that kid crapped his pants.”

Sure enough, the small boy was walking around, apparently straining to hold his pantal contents in his jeans. After watching him struggle for a few minutes, we stared in horror as he deposited said contents onto said rock garden. He walked away, certain that nobody just saw him set a pile of feces onto a decorative piece of landscaping.

After a few minutes, people started to take notice. A semi-circle formed around the rock garden, and people were trying to figure out what it was. Photos were taken. Eventually, the truth came out and people scattered, gagging and spitting out whatever happened to be in their mouths at the time. The boy was reunited with his mother, who changed his pants and took him home.

8. After the party, a storm blew through that uprooted the tents and destroyed the CD player.

9. The bride’s cat was wearing a bowtie.

None of that last stuff was really my fault, so I still think that the wedding was a complete success. Anything that goes wrong at a reception is blamed on alcohol and instantly forgotten the next day.

It should also be noted that as far as weddings go, I’ve been an usher, a groomsman, a best man, a groom AND a officiant. This is what’s known in the wedding business as ‘Batting the Cycle.’

Will I do it again? I don’t know. All I know is that I couldn’t be happier for my uncle and new aunt, and I wish them nothing but the best from here on out. I’ll see you at Christmas.

Sound off in the comments section to ask me any questions I might have missed.

Friend-ish & Family.

I Clean Up Nice.

I’m working on the ‘wedding’ essay as we speak; I expect it to be published either this afternoon or tomorrow morning at the latest.

It contains all the things you’d expect to see in a great story; sex, violence, religion, emotion, theft, drugs, betrayal, sweatiness, fancy suits, gallons of alcohol and a graphic scene of public defecation.

I’m not kidding. I wish I were.

You’re not going to want to miss this; check back throughout the day.

In the meantime, sound off in the comments section and tell us about your weekend. Also, try to convince me that Global Warming is a myth.

You’re Sick, Dude.

I'm Sick, Dude.

I’m sick, dude. As you may remember, I tweaked my back some time ago.

“When was that?”

Oh, I don’t know, about a weak back. Damn, that’s funny.

Anyways, it’s slowly healing and I’ve been taking proper precautions as to not obliterate it again. As someone who likes to stand, walk and handle a fork without assistance, I’m doing what I can to make sure I maintain that sort of lavish lifestyle.

However, I’m no Superman (insert your own Christopher Reeve joke here). In fact, I’m a bit of a crybaby. When the Missus has a migraine or the cat has a kidney stone, you don’t hear them blubbering (well, the cat screams like hell, but that’s understandable). Yet, put me in the slightest amount of discomfort, and I transform into the exact handicapped loser I’m trying to avoid. Pretending not to be hurt was never one of my strong points; I’m bawling in every photo of me that hasn’t been posted on this page.

The reason I bring this up is because I’ve been benched all week with some sort of mystery illness. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not helping my back any and I feel even more worthless than normal. If you’re in the mood for an armchair diagnosis, here are my symptoms:

1. My throat’s closed up, I can’t breathe very well, and my voice is completely shot. I sound like I’m talking through one of those electric-box things they give to folks with lung cancer. Always making the most of a bad situation, I’ve been working hard on taking my Mr. T impression to the next level. I’ve also started a Death Metal band that I’m fronting called GoreRock. My growls are top-notch, and with said illness, I can vomit at will on stage.

2. Every morning without fail, I feel like I’ve been punched awake. I ache all day, almost as if I got up in the middle of the night and unconsciously participated in a Golden Gloves tournament.

As a side note, wouldn’t that be cool? I’d just wake up in the morning with a trophy on my table. In the sports section, there would be a photo of me in the ring with my pajamas bottoms on. This is very funny to me for some reason; specifically if I won my matches.

3. Every time I blink, I crap my pants.

I’m stumped.

I’m sure it’s just a bug going around (I have been making out with more strangers lately), but I’m concerned because I’m officiating a wedding this weekend. This is supposed to be the best day of the happy couple’s lives; they don’t need me up there, high on cough medicine and gurgling like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. I also don’t want my sexy Reverend outfit to go to waste. It’s all held together with velcro, so I can use it to strip during the bachelorette party the night before. It’s all very sacrilegious. Or sacri-licious, depending on your views.

Song of choice? It’s Raining Men.

Another thing that greatly hinders recovery is my refusal to take medication. I try to avoid anything that alters my body’s natural ability to heal itself, besides all the liquor and cheap Afghani heroin. I hate trying to function when I’m jacked-up on meds, so I decided a long time ago that feeling sick was far better than feeling loopy. Sick I can handle. Sick is real. Loopy is not real and it allows you to pretend your not sick. I’ve never been a fan of fiction, buddy.

By the way, feel free to work the term “Afghani heroin” into your day-to-day conversations. The above paragraph existed solely to use that in a sentence.

As I mentioned before, me and the Missus will be heading back to our hometown this weekend for my uncle and future aunt’s wedding. From what I can gather, they really liked the ceremony script I sent them, which made me exceedingly happy. I had never written a wedding service before, so I was mapping a lot of uncharted territory. Now, all I have to do is read it aloud without passing out or ‘yodeling groceries.’

You can steal ‘yodeling groceries,’ too. I know you’re going to anyways.

The next time we talk, I’ll have my first wedding ceremony under my belt. I’ll share pictures and tell you all about it, like a family. Sound off in the comments section and tell me to drink plenty of fluids.

The Conspiracy Starts Now.

The Conspiracy Starts Here.

It was almost 100 degrees that day. I blame the government.

I had heard about Dundee’s annual ‘UFO Days’ convention a few weeks prior, while scouring the internet for interesting places in Wisconsin to visit. Me and the Missus try to do this once every few weeks; get out of the house, visit some unincorporated shell of a town, eat grilled cheese and buy antiques.

Imagine my surprise when I saw that the ‘UFO Capitol of the World’ was less than 80 miles from my doorstep! To be fair, there were at least two other Wisconsin towns that proclaimed themselves ‘UFO Capitol of the World;’ I think someone needs to regulate that title a little more closely. Nonetheless, we packed the car and hit the road before 10am on Saturday.

Hmm...this doesn't look like the UFO capitol of the world.

Okay, this would normally be the point in the essay where I would get into how this convention wasn’t even close to what I expected, but I’ll let my notes speak for themselves. These are the blurbs I scribbled to myself on the way home, as to not forget what I had just witnessed. Take a look:

a) Expected something lighthearted and fun, did not deliver.

b) Heat index of +100 with no air-conditioning; people blamed the weather on a worldwide conspiracy to shut the convention down, seriously.

c) Main speaker guy looked just like Dale Gribble; initially thought he was kidding, was not.

d) Ranting old man was carrying around a Weekly World News; also not kidding.

e) Casual conversations about chips in your head abound.

f) Government-controlled weather. government-controlled weather.

g) New world order, concentration camps, aliens, George W. Bush, Jesus and the NWO.

h) Speaker mentioned in passing that someone was in telepathic contact with an alien.

i) Stuck around for a couple hours; got the hell outta there and didn’t look back.

j) Had to leave rad alien mask in the car, didn’t want to scare locals who were actually quite scared of aliens.

k) People had poor attitude; didn’t like aliens and didn’t welcome them. Sad, really.

It was so hot...

Yeah, that’s right. It was so hot in there that I went temporarily insane and drank a Budweiser. I hadn’t been that oily since high school.

What I thought was going to be a fun and lighthearted romp concerning the UFO phenomenon more closely resembled a room full of folks suspicious and afraid of absolutely everything. As the speakers’ allegations got more and more outlandish, the people around me just nodded more and more. Every few seconds, me and Missus exchanged glances as if to say, “Glad we brought the camera, nobody’s going to freaking believe this.”

I must say that for a few seconds, I was actually agreeing with what they had to say. For example:

Speaker: “All of these bad things are because of the Bush administration.”
Me: “Yup, can’t argue with that.”

Speaker: “They want to make your lives miserable.”
Me: “True ‘dat. Preach on!”

Speaker: “They have a machine that controls the weather.”
Me: “Where are my keys?”

Still don’t believe me? I have some video I’d like you to take a peek at. I must warn you, however, you’re going to forget what life was like before you watched this. I shot it myself:

So, what have we learned? To be honest, I don’t really know. I still believe in the idea of UFO’s, but I also believe in truckloads of medication to treat paranoid delusions.

Sound off in the comments section before I’m located and burned at the stake.

What Doing?

New Logo.

Here is a sneak-peek at the brand-spanking new CDP logo. It will be replacing the ‘label maker’ logo I’ve had since the start of 2006. The old logo was impossible to use for merch purposes, so it’s been kicked to the curb. Expect to see the new logo pop up all over the CDP in upcoming weeks.

As I mentioned, along with a slight image makeover, the CDP will be entering the swag business in a week or two. I like money and you like to spend it, so everyone wins. More on that as it develops. I’m trying to take care of all the technical stuff during the summer, so when the yuppie Lost Friday crowd takes over in September, they’ll have a place to deposit their excess income.

My UFO Days 2006 post should have been here by now, but I’ve had way too many things to do recently. Along with creating merch, customizing my logo and counting my fat PayPal account (donate now!), I’ve been running myself ragged over at my real job. It doesn’t help that my back is completely shot, too. This weekend, however, I’ll be editing the video I shot at the convention, and the essay should be up on Monday. Should be.

To recap:

New logo is on the way. Expect it to start invading next week.
New merch is on the way. Give it about two weeks.
The UFO Convention video/essay will arrive on Monday.

Have a good weekend.

(EDIT: Thanks to your donations, I purchased the domain THECDP.NET. Check it out, add it to your favorites and relish in a much shorter URL.)

Here Comes The Money.

Here Comes The Money!

So, here’s the deal. After two-and-a-half years, 400 posts and hundreds upon thousands of hits, the CDP has decided to put up a donation button in the sidebar. See it over there? It’s hot, sexy and ready to take your money. I’m putting it up in case there are any CDP readers that are feeling charitable.

You see, I put a lot of time into this blog, mainly because writing is one of the few things that I’m marginally talented at. I love it more than anything on the planet besides the Missus; more than Mr. T, Tony Little and The Shaggs combined. Seriously. I’ve refused sponsors in the past and stripped the place of adverts, specifically because I felt that it took away from the page and what I was trying to do here. It doesn’t mean I don’t like money, however.

Look, I’m not broke, I don’t need a kidney and I’m kind of an asshole. However, here you are, on my page yet again, entertaining yourself for free with my essays. That’s more than okay with me, but if you’ve been looking for a special way to thank me for being so awesome, it’s you’re lucky day.

It’s completely safe and secure, and you don’t have to sign up for anything. I promise. You just need some sort of check or credit card, and that’s it.

Also, if you leave a comment, drop me an e-mail or otherwise let me know that you donated money to the CDP, I will move Heaven and earth to find some way to thank you. I can send you a customized cartoon, an autographed 8×10 glossy, anything. If you’d prefer to remain anonymous, I can dig that, too.

Thank you for your support. The highly-anticipated UFO DAYS 2006 post is on the way. Sound off in the comments section about how big of a jackass I am.

Ow, My Spine!

Slippin' A Disc.

Lumbar Disc Herniation. I have it; you want it.

About a week ago, I realized that it hurt when I laid down (that’s what the kids like to call a “red flag,” by the way). A stinging sensation ran straight up my back, with all the intensity and bravado of a cattle prod. After wincing and peeing a little, I checked to make sure I wasn’t attempting to take a nap on any live wires, and thoughtfully stroked my smooth chin.

“Well, that can’t possibly be right,” I said to myself. Then I passed out.

Further attention located the cause of my problem to be a severely tender lower back. Ignoring it for the first few days, I then realized that my legs were experiencing a large amount of tingling and pain when I slept. My constant kicking and shifting even put me on the couch for a night or so, as to not boot the Missus in the ovaries by accident one unfortunate night. Eventually, I put two and two together, and here we are. I don’t really know how it happened, but I have it and it’s not going away.

And yes, I see the irony in being too out of shape for a nap. Save the jokes, turd-burglars.

In reality, it’s sort of a serious thing. A lumbar disc is inflamed in my lower back, and it’s messing with my spine (ruh-roh). When I press hard enough on it, my right leg tingles (ruh-roh!). I’ve been going over the checklist in my head as to how this might have happened, and I think it has something to do with my multiple attempts to breakdance in the living room (I do this during TV commercials so the Missus doesn’t get bored). It was only a matter of time before I popped and locked one too many times, causing something to snap and leak out of my spinal cord.

Now, the Missus will never be bored. When I inevitably become a cripple, she’ll have to feed me mashed vegetables and wipe my aforementioned smooth chin every day. I’ll have to change the name of my page to “Quadriplegic Dance Party,” and we all know how those end up. The end times are near, and I’m preparing for the rapture.

Or, it will all heal up in six weeks, provided I take it easy and gob Icy Hot on it; whichever’s easiest for me. You know how much I hate putting ointments on my body, however, so paralyzation is still a serious option I’m weighing out with my family.

In the meantime, it hurts like hell and I’m not comfortable in any position but standing up. When I’m seated, I shift around more than Michael J. Fox on the Tilt-A-Whirl (meanest joke ever). When I lay down, it feels like my legs are trying to detach themselves from my doughy thorax (and can you blame them?). I’m cranky, irritable and plowing through the ice packs with reckless abandon.

You know, I can’t help but think that this is some sort of divine retribution for something bad I’ve done in the last few weeks. Perhaps God isn’t too happy with the concept of me being an ordained Reverend. Being raised Catholic, it’s always been assumed that I’m a hell-bound sinner, and it was only a matter of time before the bookkeeping staff in Heaven realized that I’ve slipped through the cracks and vaporized me on the spot.

Imagine my surprise when they decided to kill me slowly and painfully. Those guys are a hoot.

My spine hurts. Sound off in the comments section and give me a verbal massage.

See You In Your Nightmares!
The CDP Visits A UFO Convention.
(Hilarity does not ensue; I’ll have the video to prove it.)