Wedding Recap - When The Best Becomes The Worst

Upon the DJ's urging, we all rose to our feet, champagne glasses in hand, ready to toast the newlyweds after a few short words from the Best Man. In my experience, most BMs like to keep it short and sweet because they’re either:

A) terrified of public speaking
B) a little drunk
C) both

Unfortunately, it quickly became clear that this particular Best Man was not familiar with the concept of short and sweet. I swear this guy’s toast must have clocked in at a solid 18 minutes. Thank goodness I was wearing comfortable shoes.

And then we heard it, a kinda nerdy, kinda shy, kinda drunken voice emanating from the speakers on the DJ’s table. Unfortunately I couldn’t actually see BM from where I was sitting. As usual, Boy Wonder and I had been assigned to the wedding equivalent of the kids’ table at Christmas Dinner – shoved in a corner with the rest of the guests whom the Bride knows will likely drink too much, laugh too loud, and heckle the DJ at some point during the evening. 

BM began to speak of his childhood memories of growing up with the Groom - memories that included G’s penchant and freakish talent for the game of chess as well as BM’s pointless attempts at playing him. I could go into detail here, internet, but you really don’t want me to. It was basically just a bunch of chess blah blah blah he’s really good at it blah blah blah I suck at it blah blah blah is this microphone still on blah blah blah?.

Moments pass like molasses as BM’s little stroll down memory lane approaches the 9 minute mark. At this point I'm mainlining gin and tonic, afraid to look at BW or our friend C because I know we will all burst into fits of heckling laughter if I do. Then, pulling a non sequitur the likes of which I’ve never seen, BM launches into the second act of his monologue toast which goes something along the lines of there’s this restaurant that G likes blah blah blah where they serve 9 pound lobsters blah blah blah I never believed him blah blah blah until I ate there myself blah blah blah and wow, those really were some big lobsters blah blah blah G really likes lobsters blah blah blah.

Another 8 minutes and 45 seconds have oozed through the hourglass, during which time I have mainlined every other alcoholic beverage on our table and my toes have gone numb from standing.  Either that or they have a little buzz on.

Suddenly, in a final and utterly unexpected 15 second spurt toward the finish line, BM ties it all together with, I shit you not:

“So I guess what I'm trying to say is, B,  I really hope you can make G as happy as that 9 pound lobster did. Oh, and if you want to have a happy marriage, don’t ever challenge G to a game of chess.”

Really, Best Man?  Are you fucking kidding me?  That's your toast? 

THAT? 

..........................................

And so, as the evening waned, the Angels had bested the Red Sox, the Broncos had trampled the Patriots, my liver had been turned inside out like a used Ziploc bag, and the wait staff was using a crumber to sweep tiny little bits of brain matter off the table where my head had just exploded.