Wedding

I went to see Lara and Mike get married at the amazing Earl Burns Miller Japanese Garden.

The anticipation was excruciating, clock hands moving slow for what seemed an eternity. Their union was met with much rejoice among the rare flowers and celestially flawless landscape. It was clear that the breathtaking scenery made us quickly forget that this was on the campus of Long Beach State.
I was shocked to see something of unmatched beauty at LBSU, but nothing was as beautiful as the bride.
Wayne Maxwell decided to pimp the event with his usual flair, even offering me $300 to dive onto the wedding cake. I passed on the deal.
When I asked him who he was targeting at the wedding he shrugged, then bluntly said while pointing, “It’s too easy mang.” The wayward groomsmen agreed.
It was great to see Mike, whose anticipation regarding the incoming wedding dress permeated from his demeanor deeply.
The Hoff was there without wig, and the incomparable Ronny was brilliant in his approach to add incredibly needed moral support.
The wedding photographer was a complete fraud, a joke of a human being, a pompously self-centered egomaniac that decided to show up an hour and a half late. What a jerk.
The brave ringbearer tried to calm Mike’s nerves, for intimidation was out of the question, and I know The Hoff was slipping him pulls of the Irish whisky flask.
Since this particular wedding dealt with a lot of consumption, The Detonator was cordially invited to attend.
I’ve always enjoyed having The Detonator at my side for debauched wedding adventures, and Roxie came along to Bash with the best.
The dinner choices were either filet mignon or fish. Raj and Roxie had the lasagna.

There was no going back. At one point, moments before the ceremony began, we snuck off into the parking lot to take some swigs off a handle of Captain Morgan from my trunk. Of course, we then had to wait for the wedding to begin, hanging back to observe greatness in its finest of forms. Raj, Roxie, Wayne and I, the four amigos, kicking back for five minutes until the procession moved ahead of us.
Nikki Carmichael got a kick out of us stumbling in from the lot, obviously in tune to what we were doing, what we were up to.
She looked very pretty in her maid of honor gear, stunning with her sway amongst the gawky revelers. Nikki and Pam have taken down proud scores over the many years I've known them.
Markswomen of their stature easily qualify as Bashers. Charm only goes so far, for it's truly the killer instinct that summons the highest rate of success. This is how Lara looked at me moments before I unceremoniously cut in on Fred.
I forget what I whispered in her ear during “What a Wonderful World,” probably because I was highly inebriated, but I recall her smiling and letting out her patented laugh, the real intoxicating one. This soon led to everybody dancing.
There was some quality hustling to be had, which is unavoidable for me when surrounded by spirited girls and “Brick House” blaring on the speakers. Sasha and Nikki are always spirited.
I found myself accidentally hitting on all the women, showing some moves while the full-court press went on cruise control. Sasha berated me for never calling her, sweating me over a truly unfortunate oversight.I think she kind of forgave me as the night progressed and we mixed it up, but my only solution to her justifiable gripe is following up on a promise.

Casey ended up catching the garter, possibly a sign of things to come, although my two lifetime catches never amounted to anything more than a photo-op.

The party raged on, leaving me breathless along with the others who left the garden for Westminster. It was great to see good people.

Later on, Casey’s aversion to anything dealing with matrimonial bliss culminated into a drunkenly accurate toss of the incriminating lingerie, landing squarely on top of Ronny’s sweaty fire pit.