Thursday. Day of the rehearsal. Original plan was to be driven out to the wilds of Jersey by the doomed and groomed. Calls me late in the afternoon. "Um, so, um I just found out that I am not going to be able to drive you to the house, sorry, you'll have to take the bus, got a pen?" Further premonitions of balls on wife arrest.

Dual chinks in my armour that caused my liver to quiver. I loathe the bus. Aggrieved youth experiences of "Bistate, beep beep, going your way" mass ghetto transit of St. Louis activator grease smeared windows bus fleet. And, I fervently become a jittery fingernail devouring mess when I have absolutely zero clue of where I'm headed, clearly spelled out directions or not. Much growling and anger hard-ons throughout the ride.

Bright spot. Decided to brave midtown traffic in a cab to reach Port Authority. While idling at a red light on Fourteenth Street, a graffiti riddled white midsized delivery truck sidles up on the passenger side. The owner of the truck decided to take up arms against the bomber crew that adorned his vehicle. Obvious that some solvent had been utilised in attempts to erase the scrawlings. Visually pleasing result for me was that all he ended up doing was blend all the colors into wonderful abstract intercoursing drags of animalistic copulating pigment. My eyes spent much satisfactory time on that display.

Never had the delectation of frequenting Port Authority before. In my tenure of New York City freakitude residence I think I have been to Jersey four times. Previous trips were all accomplished through hitching rides with those that are vehicled. I know its trite and common for a Gothamite to prat on about how much Jersey sucks donkey. But it sucks donkey. If it were up to me I'd turn it into one giant parking lot for New Yorkers. So, Port Authority ain't in my regular schedule of hangs.

Makes complete sense that the building that launches people towards Jersey would suck double donkey. Uninspired pile of bricks. Workers trapped in there seemed to have mutated into cave dwelling trolls. Place I would send serious tourist assholes as an erronious directions joke that they would not find funny.

As per the suggestion of my dead man walking homie gave me, I asked the driver if he could inform me of when my stop approached. "I not sure." Hoping he could feel my desire to implant my bootheel into his kidneys until he pissed blood for days. Useless individual column entrant number three hundred forty six thousand two hundred sixty five.

Got off on the wrong stop. Fortunately the desired crossroads in Wallington was not far away. Sat on a rock waiting for the duke of ball and chainery to escort me to the rehearsal spot.

Another building I don't find myself in often. Church. I must say for all the pomp and mystical circumstance of the Catholic church, the usual goomba pinky ring like ornate decoration sensibilities was weak in this joint. Actually looking forward to tripping out on the god glitter, I was disappointed.

One of my duties as the best man was to be the witness for the authenticity of the intention of my doomed homie to freely and without complications ( i.e. some little piece of chicken, with a pair of his rugrats she squirted out, that he's schtupping on the side ). Short yes and no answer pop quiz from the priest. Felt like sneaking a peek at someone else's test. Hrmph. Anyway. The soon to be betrothed survived the inquisition. Bam! Crash! Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition! Dun dun duuuuuuun!

Will spanky's stomach retain his lunch throughout this ordeal? Will the man with his cock in the wedding band guillotine retain his manhood? Will the bride's family members label yours truly as the incestual lover of satan? Stay tuned for these and other riveting questions to be answered.

Joy.