Iâ€™m in way over my head.
It turns out that if I propose to a girl, Iâ€™m apparently expected to help â€œplan a weddingâ€. Unbelievable. Bridgette and I are fortunate in that she has a lot of ideas, and I have no spine whatsoever, so thus far the planning has gone swiftly.
My initial suggestion was to be married in Siberia on the winter solstice. We could have a few rugged sheep and hearty Slavic folk observe the brief ceremony, presided over by the undead husk of Czar Nicholas II. This idea died a swift death, however, when we found out that Siberia has an 18-month waiting list for Saturday usage.
Later, Brent, Kevin and I thought of a better idea, born out of the ashes of Jeremy. For the processional, Bridgette could ride sidesaddle down the aisle on a makeshift unicorn. We could borrow a horse from a local stable and attach a single horn to its skull with an industrial stapler or nail gun. Hopefully, the injured horse could make it all the way to the altar before the massive blood loss and brain hemorrhaging caused it to crumble in agony. If we werenâ€™t so lucky, the unicorn might collapse into the crowd, snapping its leg-bones in two, spraining Bridgetteâ€™s ankle, and bathing my grandmotherâ€™s dress in filthy horse blood. The beastâ€™s screams of torment would unsettle the attendees, and likely cause the pastor to wretch. Our dutiful ushers would then be forced to drag the dying animal to the back of the church over the harmonious strains of â€˜Canon in Dâ€™. Later, during the vows, a muffled shotgun blast would finally silence the agony-choked beast.
My best guess is that Bridgette will love the idea and insist on naming the unicorn Peaches, and because Iâ€™m such a good fiancÃ©, Iâ€™ll let her have her way once again.