Hola amigos. What’s goin’ down in your part of town? I know it’s been a long time since I’ve rapped at ya, but I’ve been busier than a rooster in a henhouse.
First off, I got a new job as a valet parker at some restaurant that’s trying to put on the ritz, but it’s more like an Arby’s with tablecloths. They have all these plaster statues of Romans with their peckers out, but that doesn’t help matters any. I’ve got maybe three cars to park most nights, which means I get a whopping two bucks in tips plus my $4.50 an hour. The fact that it’s slow doesn’t keep my boss from riding my ass, though. I gotta stand alert the whole damn shift, even if there isn’t a car in sight, and I gotta take a leak.
On top of that, I had to replace my muffler, since it was causing cops to give me the eye, and you know how it is with me and the cops. I tell you, if every cop was to suddenly vanish from earth, that would be just fine with me. But anyway, I didn’t quite replace the muffler—”patch” is more the word. I got some aluminum tape and some old beer cans, cut ’em up, slapped ’em in place, and now it runs good as gold. I’m not cheap or anything, but why spend a mint trying to shine shit when I got my eye on that Mustang convertible?
I know, I know, you’re thinking, “With all this going on, when does Jim have time for fun?” Well, I manage to squeeze it in every now and then.
Last weekend, for example, my friends Josh and Heather got hitched. Now, I want to make one thing clear right now: Love is for suckers. You’ll never see me strapping on the old ball and chain. Sorry to disappoint, ladies, but that’s the way it’s gotta be. Jim Anchower’s a free spirit, and he can’t have any woman dragging him down.
Now, all this doesn’t mean that I won’t go to weddings. I mean, who could pass up a free meal with plenty of beer to boot? Not me, that’s for sure. Hell, at John and Cindy’s wedding, I practically polished off a pony keg and a plate of sliced ham all by myself.
But remember, when it comes to clothes, although you may want to slap on any old thing for your night of drinking, you gotta make it look like you care. Wearing a nice shirt says, “I’m happy for you, and I wish you the best,” whether you do or not. If you go too fancy, though, that says, “I’m a big-head idiot who’s gonna get his ass kicked by Jim Anchower if I don’t watch out.” So, for Josh and Heather’s wedding, I decided to go with a pair of black denims and a nice, white T-shirt. Only problem was, I wore my two best white tees the weekend before while I was working on my car. If either one didn’t reek so bad of oil and gas, I would’ve worn one, for sure. As it was, though, I had to go with one of my last clean tees, my black Led Zep shirt with the winged dude on it.
Sure, the old Houses Of The Holy look wasn’t exactly ideal for a wedding, but it didn’t matter much: Josh and Heather were friends, but not great friends. The way I had it planned, I could show up right after the ceremony, just in time to decorate the car, so I wouldn’t have to endure any of that, “Do you so solemnly swear to tell the truth” and “With this ring” stuff. Plus, I’ve been saving a ratty old pair of boots for just such an occasion.
Anyway, I got to the church, but I didn’t see anyone dolling up the car with the “Just Married” signs and cans and what-not. I decided I should get going on it myself, but I couldn’t figure out which car it was.
I decided it was better to wait until the guests started coming out, but after 10 minutes of waiting, no one came. So I figured that rather than keep looking like a class-A chumpo, I would sneak into the church and what the holdup was.
Not eager to be seen, I slipped into a side door that was unlocked. Somehow, though, I wound up in a basement with about a million doors leading out of it. I figured it would be best to head for this one door where the voices were loudest, ’cause I didn’t want to wind up in some confessional booth or anything.
Problem was, it was a squeaky door right up front where everyone rubbernecked to see who was coming in late. I was stuck. I slid into the first available seat, which was right up front, and tried to pay attention.
At that point, I realized that it wasn’t Josh and Heather getting married; it was some other couple I’d never seen before! Man, was I pissed! I had made such a scene going in, there was no way I could make a graceful exit. But after about five minutes of that “I do” business, I didn’t give a crap. I made like I hadda use the bathroom, grabbing my sack and running toward the exit.
Once I made it outside, I looked at the invitation and realized that I was definitely at the wrong church, so I raced to my car to try to make it to the right one in time.
Well, I got there just in time to see the bride and groom drive off to the reception. Their car was already all messed with by then, sorely lacking the finishing touch of Jim Anchower’s bootprint. Oh, well, I figured: I could always slap it on at the reception.
I headed over to the Black Bear Supper Club, site of the reception and home of the Original Friday Night Fish Fry, and waited at the bar for everyone to show up. Ron, the deadbeat who still owes me 10 bucks, was the first guest there, and I was actually glad to see him after such a waste of an afternoon.
I told Ron what had happened, and he said, “Well, let’s make up for it by getting a jump on the rest of the party.” He then ordered a bucket of Millers, only he was short on cash, so I had to pay for most of it.
We made short work of them, being thirsty guys and all, and by then the party was starting. Good thing it wasn’t a cash bar, ’cause I woulda blown all of my money getting Ron drunk, the way it was going. The DJ started things off right by playing “I Knew The Bride (When She Used To Rock And Roll),” and believe it or not, I was actually out on the dance floor giving it a whirl. (But don’t tell anyone, or I swear I’ll kick your ass.)
After the song was over, the DJ started playing “The Chicken Dance” and “The Electric Slide” and bunch of other weak shit for the olds, so I went back by Ron to get another beer. We stayed by the bar for a while, shootin’ the breeze and occasionally giving out regards to people.
By about the seventh beer, I remembered the boots out in my car. It seemed like the time to do the wedding car up right. I went out to my car and got ’em. I had to pay the bride and groom my respects, and what better way than with my boots?
As I fished them out of the trunk, I noticed some motor oil had spilled on them, and the fumes were really starting to make me woozy. Dazed, I took a few deep breaths, and went back into the Black Bear.
On the way in, I accidentally bumped into the door and knocked over some old bag. Then I weaved my way over to the wedding table and said, “Here are some boots for this happy occasion.” Or at least, that’s what I tried to say. Instead, according to Ron, I said, “Fuckin’ boots for you. Raaaah!” and I threw them at Heather, the blushing bride. She jumped up, screaming about the oil on her dress. Josh, who had had a bit too much to drink as well, got up like he was going to kick my ass.
Everyone was getting all pissed off at me when I was just trying to do something nice, so I started to get all pissed off back and took off my Zep shirt to kick Josh’s ass. I don’t believe in fighting, but sometimes, you gotta stand up for what you believe in. Unfortunately, I was drunk enough to believe in everything. Good thing Ron was there to drag me off, or I would have spoiled the wedding by stomping all over the groom’s face.
I never thought I’d owe Ron one, but I guess I do. He got me out of there, and we spent the rest of the night at my place smoking weed and playing Nintendo. That was 10 times more fun than the stupid reception. Plus, I got a new high score on Primal Rage that night, ’cause Ron sucks at it so bad. He always plays with the Tyrannosaurus Rex, but the farting, puking ape rocks ass over everything else. I swear, it cracks me up.
Jim Anchower joined The Onion’s editorial writing staff in 1993 after several distinguished years on The Come Back Inn dishwashing staff. He comments on community-affairs, automotive, and employment issues. He attended LaFollette High School in Madison, WI.
