338 Days Left: Mess with the Dress

I don't understand female fashion. I don't know what rompers are, who though high-waisted pants looked good on anyone who wasn't standing in flood waters. I have spent most of my life tryin to convince girls to take their clothes off, and I have spent little time actually caring about what they put on. When it comes to wedding clothes, I could care even less. If you looked at photos from 20 different weddings, you would have no idea who was at which wedding, because everyone looks the exact same. It's like a bunch of drunk penguins attempting to mate with women in puffy dresses.

The wedding dress may be the single dumbest piece of clothing ever invented (and that includes jorts, suspenders, and fanny packs). This one dress, that can only be worn one time, makes our women look like parade floats, costs more then everything in our closet combined, and leads to more boring conversations than CSPAN.

Any guy who has ever been a part of a wedding dress conversation is either very board or very very gay. I'd rather my future wife walked down the aisle in a bikini, so we could use that photo as a beramator to make sure things don't fall apart post wedding. I'm pretty sure the wedding dress was created to hide your bride, and add 20 lbs of ruffles to her ass, so you have no idea if she is slipping over the years.

Aside from all of the obvious cosmetic foolishness of a wedding dress, the thing involves more appointments then a sports car from the 30s. First fitting, seeking fitting, final fitting, day of fitting... I've worn hundreds of things in my life, ranging from suits to hollowen costumes, and never been fitted ever. But, this one dress gets stitched up more than Chaz Bono's genitles. I just don't get it...and according to my soon-to-be I "never will."

"Who Cares Bingo, anyone?"

354 Days Left: I do?

I'm sitting here in Mexico, doing my best to avoid the violent drug cartels, while at the same time looking for a tourist-friendly drug dealer. But, that is not the primary reason for my visit. I am here because this is the spot that I will now force my friends and family to travel to, just to see me get married, and eat overpriced cake. I feel guilty having a destination wedding, because I know how I feel when I get that invitation in the mail. I go through this exact inner monologue:

1. He's getting married?
2. Whats her last name? I guess I don't know either of them very well.
3. It's in (tropical destination)
4. Cool
5. That's $2,000 easily
6. What good are my frequent flier miles for anyway?
7. Need an excuse.
8. Fuck it, where's my Amex?

It's the original 8 step wedding boogie. Sorry in advance for making my friends dance.