Love is a many-splintered thing

I went to a wedding reception about six weeks ago. A fancy affair, there was enough mostaciolli (pronounced MUSKACHOLLI) to plaster the inside of a decent size home.

On the plate, with each piece of wedding cake, was a nice mint wrapped in gold foil. On each piece of foil was printed “Boob-Job and No-Chin appreciate your present.” [I changed the names slightly.]

So, six weeks later, still no thank-you note, so I guess that was it!

This is the second time this has happened to me! A couple of years ago, the mothers of the bride and groom circulated at a reception I was attending, handing out little scrolls of paper, each tied with the cutest little ribbon, On each scroll was printed: “Thank you for the wonderful present. /s/ Pregnant and Not-The-Father.” [Again, I have changed the names slightly.]

At any wedding, there are exactly two happy people: the bride and her mother. The bride’s father is pissed because he had to pay for the whole damn thing. The groom and the groomsmen are hungover from the night before. Those in attendance are all thinking, “for this schmaltzy thing I gave up my Saturday.” The groom’s parents? They are of course wondering how long before tweedy-bird figures out that junior is gay.

So be it hereby noted, that henceforth from this day forward, I will give no wedding presents and I will attend no more events at which there is even the slightest chance whatsoever that someone will for any reason do the Hokey Pokey. The only exception will be if I need some mostaciolli to grout the cracks in my driveway.