Lyrical Destruction

So I was sitting on the balcony of City Grocery one afternoon last week when I realized that I live a lavishly lovable life. Actually, there is nothing lavish about my life, I just wanted to incorporate a little alliteration into this blog to educate you nimrods. Ha, I'm so good I knocked that baby out in the first sentence. I wouldn't call you nimrod, but judging by your choice of literature at the moment you don't exactly project "I love Shakespeare". For you non-Oxpatch residents, City Grocery is not a grocery nor, by my population-based definition, in a city. But hey, that's up for debate.

Anyways, they serve up some mean beverages for the standard happy hour crowd. On this particular day, I met a friend who was looking for a break from his miserable life as a full-time law student. As I've already mentioned, we sat on the balcony, which happens to be a damn stupid idea when it's -100 degrees outside. Apparently I was hanging out with cigarette smoking zombies who are capable of resisting any temperature to satisfy their nicotine cravings. On another note, do Eskimos leave the igloo to smoke or do they even have access to tobacco products? During the time we were there, I met a local business owner with whom I set up an appointment to discuss job opportunities.

The next day I met with the aforementioned business owner and explained to him that I am an amateur writer. Through the course of conversation, he told me he was getting married in April and was struggling with putting together his vows. It's safe to say he had consumed one too many gin and tonics. I'm kidding, it was ten o'clock in the morning and I was not meeting with Joe Naimath. The afternoon before, I had promised to bring him a short-story that I submitted for a contest. He read a couple of passages while I took a phone call and seemed to like it. I know what you're thinking, it's stupid to take a phone call during a "job interview", but believe me when I say there was an important soccer match taking place in England of which I needed to be updated. I don't know what he liked about my cynical prose or highly disguised pop culture references, but now he wanted me to help him with his wedding vows! I nearly pooped my pants, but to appease my desire for public service, I thought I'd help him out. I'm no Mother Theresa, but I could make Papa Hood fashionable. Wow, what a mistake.

So what should I do? I told him I would help, but I was secretly hoping he would never bring it up again. But once again, I found a way to make this awkward situation worse. While devouring a bag of Sour Patch Kids (you know you like them) and watching Seinfeld reruns the other day, I devised a plan. I've determined that he should use some lyrics from his fiancé’s favorite love song. Sounds corny doesn't it. I know, genius.

So this afternoon, I paid a visit to my newfound pal and informed him of my idea. Not only did he like it, he cracked a couple of beers and suggested we pick a song right then and there. Not that this wasn't already a completely ridiculous endeavor (sorry for the double negative, damn grammar police), but his song choices sent me into a hysterical state of laughter. His proposed songs were "Everything I Do" by Brian Adams, "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion, and "How Do I Live" by LeAnn Rimes. Sure, these are better than "Baby Got Back", but isn't there another unique song she likes that doesn't bring tears to the eyes of single women everywhere. I was secretly hoping that they were honeymooning in the Carribean so he could use "Two Tickets to Paradise" by Eddie Money, but I never brought it up. I regret ever mentioning this absurd plan.

Honestly, this idea is as stupid as buying a card at Hallmark and thinking "Hmm, I'd say that." Now that this idea is in his head, and he certainly seems to like it, how do I prevent him from actually doing it? Well, I haven't figured that one out yet. Otherwise, if you're attending an Oxford wedding in the near future, please share my hope that he doesn't choose the Titanic theme song because that ship might crash. And by ship I mean wedding, and by wedding I mean life. I guess it could be worse. Just imagine him reciting some raunchy 90's R&B track. At that point, I'd begin to worry whether his fiancé owned a weapon.

Your unofficial wedding destroyer,
Hunter Hood