Bob, the Best Man at the wedding I covered last weekend, looked into
my camera and said, with tears in his eyes, “This is the most beautiful wedding
I’ve ever seen. Such a sweet, sweet couple. I wish them the best and hope they
stay together forever.” I would have believed him too, if he wasn’t wearing a
cockeyed jock strap on his head. Or if he hadn’t taken a swing at the groom
earlier in the reception, right after downing a half a fifth of Wild Turkey in
one long gulp and then professing his eternal lust for his best friend’s new bride.
What a wedding. After 20 plus years of covering weddings, Bah
Mitzvahs , and other such time slaughtering celebrations for my small video
business, I must say, this wedding, what I now call the Smith-Davis fiasco of
2013, was the most interesting catastrophe I ever covered. I’ve seen people die
during receptions, usually due to heart attacks, but I choose to believe from
boredom. I’ve seen wives run away at the altar, bridegrooms run away at the
altar, even, once, a Pastor run away at the altar (apparently a mob affiliated
parishioner had showed up to collect some overdue gambling debts, knowing where
and when he could find the good Father), but this wedding reception took the
cake. And threw it across the room during a food fight that would have made
Jerry Springer blush. To say that these people had no class would infer that no
class was as low as you could go. After last weekend, I am here to tell you,
there is a lower classification. The clans of Mr. Smith and nee Ms. Davis belong
to a status I now refer to as the ‘Holy Crap, who rented those people formal
wear’ class.
Reviewing the video, there’s no way I can make this look good. I
think I might edit it in spoof fashion or in a style reminiscent of a bad
horror film, as if Hitchcock filmed Attack
of the Killer Tomatoes or Plan 9 From Outer Space instead of Psycho, perhaps. There’s just not much
you can do with this footage.
How can you make a 90 year old grandmother smoking a cigarette with
a hole in her neck, who says “My granddaughter looks fat in that dress, he must
have already knocked her up…” through a talking box look romantic?
I personally like the footage of the little Smith kid, all of 6
years old maybe, dropping his cup of punch (spiked probably) on the floor over
and over again so he could look up the dresses of every woman in the hall.
Nothin’ spells luvin’ like a youthful peeping tom, trying to get a glimpse of
his kin’s underwear. That kid has IRS agent as a profession written all over
his future.
Here are a few gems from the edited footage I have assembled so far,
and these are the high points:
FADE INTO A LARGE RECEPTION HALL, LOOKING AS THOUGH IT HAS BEEN
INVADED AND OCCUPIED BY CALIGULA’S INBRED COUSINS:
The maids of (dis)honor sitting at their table, eating the catered
food as though this was their first meal after being locked away in a year long
Weight Watcher’s diet concentration camp. They would look pretty, too, in their
beautiful matching calico (and neon) wedding attire, were it not for fleshy
pieces of salmon and Jack Daniels spittle leaking from their jowls:
“This is some high class weddin’,” said Maid Number 1, ‘they even
have cloth napkins on the table folded into cute little hats.”
“Hrmmphhglarg…” said Maid Number 2, as she gnawed, caveman style, on
a whole rack of lamb.
“What is this orange stuff?” Maid Number 3 asked as she shoved a
forkful of it into her mouth. “It tastes kind of funny.”
“They called it salmon.” Maid Number 1 replied, taking another long
pull of her Jack and Coke.
“Whazzat?” Maid Number 3 asked again.
“Hrmmphhglarg… it’s fish, dumb ass.” Maid Number 2 managed between
ravenous bites of meat.
Maid Number 3 then deposited all of the salmon, and everything else
in her stomach, all over the table. “Ewwwwww….” she added, straightening her
hair and wiping traces of her insides from her mouth, “I hate fish, no wonder
it tastes funny.”
CUT TO:
The Bride’s family, sitting quietly at their table:
Me: “Well, sir, what do you think of your daughter’s magical day so
far?”
Father: “It’s frigging expensive, and getting more expensive by the
bottle.”
The Bride’s father takes a puff of his cigarette and a long drink
from his 32 OZ Budweiser tall boy. The Bride’s Mother hides her eyes in her
hands and stares down at the table, moaning. The Bride’s teenaged Sister,
clearly aggravated, punches her Father in the arm.
Sister: “Dad, hush now.”
Father: “Shut up girl, you won’t never fetch no man with them kind
of manners. You ain’t pretty or easy like your sister there.”
Sister: “I swear, I HATE YOU.”
Father: “Be quiet and eat that expensive scrapple on your plate. I’m
paying for it whether you eat it or not, might as well not waste it.”
Sister: “Oh gawdddd, it’s pate you drunk old hick.”
CUT TO:
The Bride and Groom are taking their first dance as a newlywed
couple to the loving sounds of “Your Mama Don’t Dance And Your Daddy Don’t Rock
And Roll” By Loggins and Messina. The Best Man staggers up and takes a swing at
the groom, knocking him down.
Best Man: “I love her more-n’ you ever will.”
The Bride hikes up her dress and kicks the Best Man squarely in the
groin. The Best man folds up like a tri-fold menu from a cheap Chinese take-out
restaurant and crumples to the floor. A 20 minute food fight ensues.
CUT TO:
After the food fight, all is forgiven and the reception resumes. The
camera CLOSES IN on the repaired cake. A sad, now lopsided three tiered marble
affair with splotches of white icing with floor debris stuck to it. The cake is
so tilted now, it could take posture advice from the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The
little Bridegroom and Bride figurines have been destroyed in the melee, but luckily,
someone had some Star Wars toys in their car, so the figurines have been
replaced by a little Darth Vader and a Princess Leia missing an arm. The new Husband
cuts the cake with his hunting knife. The new Bride punches him in the arm
because he has cut the cake without her, and then she shoves his face in the
remains of the cake. Another lengthy food fight ensues.
FADE TO BLACK
Alas, I still have about another hour of footage to comb through,
but I think I’m going to skip it. Aside from the fact that it will make me
nauseous and that it will make me worry about the health of the human gene pool
going forward, I don’t think I can use any of it. The lens was covered in cake
and salmon mousse by then. I think my camera might be ruined. I think, going forward,
I might have to do background checks before I take anymore video gigs.
Courtesy of Bob Maida-Photographer
