Bride: We met at a bar. I know, it’s so cheesy, isn’t it? I wish we had met at a dance class or something, but you know what, it doesn’t matter. We’ve been together for five lovely years. I’m in advertising so I have a hectic schedule — wake up early and go home late that sort of thing — but he doesn’t mind. He always has dinner ready for me, I mean, how great is that? He’s so wonderful. I’m so lucky. I mean, we fight sometimes, but who doesn’t, right? One time he left a jar of peanut butter open and our dog, Laila, got to it and she made such a mess and ruined my sectional. I was furious and let him know and we didn’t speak to each other for two days. I had to be the one to apologize for his mess. Can you believe that? At least Laila didn’t get sick, she can eat anything and she’ll be all right. Labradors. God’s gift to men, am I right?
Groom: Thanks for coming; I thought you wouldn’t come, since, you know, of what I did to you in freshman year. I was stupid, yeah, but we’re cool, right? Awesome, thanks. What? Oh yeah, I met her at a bar while we were sophomores. Just between you and me, I thought it was going to be one-of-those nights, you know, sleep and never-see-her-again, but I found out she had some mo-o-ney. Hold on to her, my brain said. She isn’t bad in the sack either. We’ve been together for like almost five years, I think. I don’t even remember when we first started dating. College was just a drunken mess, you know? It’s been great, except when, you know, it’s her time of the month. She can be such a bitch. I left a jar of peanut butter open once and my dog got into it and she comes over and starts yelling at me — for what, letting the dog eat something out of a jar? I’ve seen her dip her finger in my jar of peanut butter and go back for seconds. Isn’t that gross? God, sometimes, I wonder what I’m doing with her, but I remember, I’m in love with her — at least, that’s what I tell everyone.
Old Woman: I remember my wedding like it was yesterday. How long ago do you think that was? Oh, you’re a sweetheart; it was 56 years ago. Yes, it was in 1956 and I was 24 years old. My husband — fiancé at the time — asked me to marry him right after he got his Masters at Wesleyan. He was a music major. He wanted to create some gizmo that would warp sound, and he went to work for Fender. He never shut up about it. I miss him — he passed away two years ago. I don’t think I have much left in me without him. When I hear couples talk about how they’re going to spend the rest of their lives together, it makes me cry. You young people make me feel young again.
Bridesmaid: I am so hungry right now. Don’t you know how long I had to sit in a chair to get my hair into a perfect braided chignon? What? You don’t know what — wait, who invited you? Oh, you know the groom? I thought you were the photographer or something. You were his roommate? Strange, he’s never mentioned you. Oh! Wait, you must’ve been the quiet Asian one. Yes, yes, I remember now. He’s talked about you, about how sorry he was about the whole thing. Jesus Christ, I’m starving. Hey can you do me a favor and get me a plate from the buffet? Get some sushi, you know all about that right?
Bachelor (Friend of Groom): Hey, I’m so glad to see you again. It’s been a long time. What are you doing? Oh, writing? That’s cool. I’m a banker right now. Yeah, it feels nice to relax for a bit — I’m sure you writers know all about that. I’m just kidding. Remember when we put ice in your bed? Yeah, I’m sorry about that, I didn’t realize you were going to come down with hypothermia. How long were you in the hospital? Wow, that long? I mean, did you get to complete the semester? That’s good. Yeah, sorry about that, we were drunk, you know, it happens, right? Dude, want to shotgun this beer? No? Ah, you’re a liquor guy, I can tell. How about some car bombs? Okay, I’ll be here if you change your mind.
Wedding Singer: No one listens to me. I don’t understand. I’m singing the best Tori Amos song ever and everyone is crowded around the bar. Look at the smug son-of-a-bitch. He gets more attention than the bride and groom! I’ve trained long and hard for my voice to get here. My band used to celebrate wild romance, tell stories of crazy youth sex! I tell stories through music! What does he do? Get people drunk and take their money! Let me tell you something—I make your ears want to have sex with my lips. You know it. I know it. But it’s that prick right there that’s preventing me from getting to them. He gets them drunk and then they do stupid things. Do you know how many times drunk people ask me to sing Freebird? Who the hell sings Freebird at a wedding? Ugh! Look at him. There’ nothing more infuriating in the world than a bastard who stands you up and leaves you in the rain for an hour. That asshole.
Waiter: I’ve been up and down this aisle and the same woman has tripped me at least five times. Apparently her dress is too tight and she can’t sit like a normal person so she has to keep her hips open and sit on the tip of the chair to be comfortable. What the hell is wrong with people? My legs are tired; I don’t care about these two getting married. I think the groom hit on one of the staff. Everything feels like a clusterfuck. Wait, you’re not asking me to get you a drink, are you? Okay, good. I think I have blisters on my left foot right now. Yeah, my friend tells me to get my shoes replaced, but I honestly have no money. Weddings pay okay, so that’s why I do it — at the expense of my feet. Goddamn, I need new shoes. I say this all the time, but I need to pay rent and utilities first, so after that I have just enough money to buy myself groceries. I hate weddings, but I can’t wait for mine.
Wedding Cake: I was baked separately at approximately 350ºF for about 25 minutes. I am a mixture of eggs, flour, sugar, baking soda and shortening. As you can see, I am multi-layered—there are three tiers to my structure. Yes, which is why I was baked separately. My creator utilized a rotary oven to construct my body. My epidermal layer is estimated to be 75% buttercream frosting and 25% cream frosting. As you can see, I have been tattooed with a myriad of symbols. This green line loops around my second layer. What? Please do not touch me. My creator called me a “masterpiece,” which I can only assume means, I am a master. Master of what, I cannot say for I do not know. There are figures placed on top of my head, but I cannot see. What is that you speak of, bride and groom? A marriage between two people who love each other? Marriage? Love? Two? These are concepts I cannot grasp. I see. A consummation — a ceremony to reinforce this feeling two people get — two is a number greater than one — one is a singular item — as you can see, I am still trying to figure all of this out. I may understand this concept of love. If you can, please send my regards to the cupcakes in the next aisle. They look fantastically appetizing. That is love, no?