doodledee

We were seven minutes late for Colin's wedding last Friday. Seven minutes late after spending 45+ minutes stuck in a gridlock nightmare on the freeway like a caged animal. When we finally drove-up to the mansion on Summit Avenue, I was already trying to calculate how many glasses of champale it was gonna take to get me back to the happy place I prefer to be in. I figured around 30.

Then I saw the bride and groom standing out front of the house, looking oh-so fetching in their wedding garb. "Whew," I thought, "they're running a few minutes late, too. We made it just fine."

Wait a second... something's not quite right here.

Why do the bride and groom look so carefree and relaxed? Shouldn't they be nervous and stuff?

And why are all those people waiting in line to greet the couple?

And why is JoePa laughing and pointing at me?

Holy crap, the wedding is over! Holy crap that was a short wedding! Did they just shoot them out of a cannon or something? Ta-da! Husband and wife!

It doesn't matter, we're still late.

Sosorrysosorrysosorrysosorry.

It was actually closer to 32 glasses.