General consensus after the rehearsal was that drinks were necessary. Few short years ago the township of Wallington New Jersey was in the Guinness Book of World Records for most bars per capita. They literally had a bar on every corner. The Raven II was elected as drinkery of choice. Immediately I asked where the famous Raven senior existed. Shrugs.

Look I understand that I am cute and dangerous looking, as well as cocky beyond reasonable justification. The rusty corral of regular dudes that haunt your local bar, and probably already descended into your horny clutches while donning super deceptive beer goggles once too often, hypercontextually adds to my predator charms. Have some fucking respect though. I do find it amusing to be drooled over, but I am laughing at ya, not with ya. Especially when you dance seductively while Aerosmith erupts from a badly arranged sound system.

Fast bus back to sweet sweet Manhattan. Insomnia not cooperating with endeavors to bolster system for the next day. Staring down the smelly crack of dawn.

Friday morning. Taking the sheets from my body feels like I'm removing a bandaid from every tactile nerve I have. Strictly not to have the groan producing annoying conversation of my homie with his testicles on hostile takeover, of how I might wanna clean up for the cataclysmic events, I shave, trim the goat and clip the wildly curled burns.

Surprise! The bus I took the day before to reach Wallington only runs evenings. Crash course on a pay phone for the myriad of choices to be had to catch a bus ride into the armpit of the East Coast. Yet another sphincter clenching, vinyl armrest scraping, noggin boiling bus trip where I rely on pure luck to arrive where I am supposed to be.

Get there. Doomed dude picks me up. Bleary eyed watch him put whithering potted plants into the garden in his backyard. Suburbia. Blech.

The other groomsman arrives. Hop in the car and take an extensive trip to the tux rental place. Again, suburbia. Blech. Why does it always take an infernal fucking epic journey to get anything done in the fucking suburbs? Best part of the fitting - bragging rights on having the largest shoe size. Must say, the tuxes my man rented were pretty sharp. Least the queen of the doomed didn't leave her mark on that, allowing for the possibility to have my peacock feathers ruffle well enough to wrangle in a chick. Christ, it was also the first chance me and the man with the malaise scent of entrapment had any non wifely influenced hang time together.

The fingers, they need rest. More wedded foolery to come. Oh yes it shall come and rain a crimson river of unity spew over all of you. Hide while you can.