I’m in way over my head.

It turns out that if I propose to a girl, I’m apparently expected to help “plan a wedding”. 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 weren’t so lucky, the unicorn might collapse into the crowd, snapping its leg-bones in two, spraining Bridgette’s ankle, and bathing my grandmother’s dress in filthy horse blood. The beast’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 ‘Canon in D’. 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 I’m such a good fiancé, I’ll let her have her way once again.

On Tuesday night, I finally mustered up the courage to ask the fair Bridgette for her dainty hand in marriage. I was incredibly nervous and excited to finally pop the question, after years of dreading the day I would have to propose to a girl. My heart was racing, my palms were clammy, and my mouth tasted faintly like taco salad, for reasons I cannot discern.

I was able to calm myself by visualizing the event. “What’s the worst that could happen?” I asked myself. As I saw it, the evening was going to play out one of the following ways:

-Bridgette would say ‘yes’, and we would cry and hug and laugh and snuggle and squat.

-Bridgette might say ‘no’, causing me to eviscerate myself before her very eyes in a failed effort to win her back out of sympathy and revulsion.

-Bridgette would say ‘yes’, but then accidentally punch me in the groin, causing me to keel over and vomit in agony. This would be a funny story that we would laugh about for years until realizing that it made me impotent, so we would decide to adopt, but an unlikely paperwork snafu results in our adopting a newborn walrus which we promptly harvest for it’s delicious meat.

-Bridgette would say ‘no’, citing her disdain for social studies, Star Wars, British bands, and tall men. In turn, I ask her what the hell she’s been doing with me for the last 14 months, to which she would reply that she thought I was actually comedian Steve Martin.

-Bridgette would say ‘yes’, and would cheer me on as I train for the All-Valley Karate tournament to take on Johnny and the Cobra Kai.

-Bridgette would say ‘no’ and be devoured alive by ravens.

-Bridgette would say ‘yes’, but as I am joyfully hugging her, I notice a small computer chip lodged in her back. Further inquiry on the matter would reveal that she is an android created to allow aliens from the Nebulon Sector to study human behavior. In response to this development, I would thrust the pole of an American flag through her temple, and her final transmission to her superintelligent creators would be my grim warning, “If you don’t like America, then move out.”

-Bridgette would say ‘no’, causing me to go on a troubling and unnatural binge of eating popcorn balls until I start uncontrollably blowing mud out my butt.

Turns out I was wrong about my guesses. We actually had a lovely night that I didn’t manage to ruin with my awfulness. Oh well, there’s still a wedding day I can completely mess up. There’s hope for me yet.

So on Wednesday night I made my way over to the Mall of America at about 9pm and got in line to see the midnight premier of Star Wars Episode III. I was the 211th person in line, along with my buddy Jon Gilmore.

We were waiting next to 3 Padme Amidalas, a few Jedis, a Darth Vader, and one guy dressed as George Lucas (flannel shirt, puffy vest jacket, and light-blue tapered jeans). Jon and I did our best to avoid eye contact with these folks, but it was too difficult. Suffice to say, by the time they started tearing tickets, I was holding hands with a 300-lb Obi-Wan Kenobi.

When we finally got let into the theater, we found some good seats, and thus the wait was on. We tried to bide our time with challenging movie trivia, like the “Who Am I?” game: “He sailed on the ‘Titanic’…He’s part of a ‘Gang’ in New York…”, then it shows a picture of Leonardo DiCaprio when he was about 16 and says, “Who Am I?” (I kid you not, a woman was overheard saying, “Oh, THAT’S who it is!”)

Because of some issue with the projector, the movie didn’t get started until 12:25am. While the crowd was waiting, it was really starting to get ugly - people were chanting, clapping, and shouting out in wookie languages for the film to roll. A few brave dorks ran up to the screen area and had a lightsaber duel for the crowd, which went nuts in approval. After a few minutes, however, it got old, and three unfortunate gentlemen in the front row were beheaded.

Once the movie started, I sat in my seat and enjoyed the show. As I was revelling in the amazing space battles and craptacular proclaimations of love, I began to notice that it was getting a little warm in the theater. As the minutes wore on, the temperature steadily rose. As it got hotter and hotter, the geeks in the heavy jedi gear began to sweat profusely. Soon, the entire theater was filled with the warm, heavy musk of acne-ridden Star Wars fans. It smelled like a calzone filled with spoiled butterscotch pudding and bursting with millipedes.

Did the sweaty ambiance and earthy frangrances ruin my Star Wars experience? Hardly. You’d have to gut my dog with a carpet knife to distract me from the festivities. It did, however, teach me something new. I learned that no matter how dorky somebody might look, and no matter how socially feeble they might be, they still smell absolutely awful when you pack a theater with them and turn off the AC.

This afternoon, I saw probably the greatest thing that has ever been crafted by human hands.

A massive, 10,000 pound hockey stick.

Bridgette and I were passing through the fine haven of Eveleth, MN - home of the U.S. Hockey Hall of Fame - and she pulled off the highway because she said she had something important to show me. Little did I realize just how life-affecting this experience would be.

Nestled neatly between cheap taverns and crack houses stands this 110-ft hockey stick. As I approached it, I felt humbled in its presence. I gave thanks to almighty God that he would provide us with such wonderous deeds.

Though the skies were dreary and the wind was bitter on the Iron Range of Minnesota this day, the magnificence of this massive sporting good was a splendor to behold. Indeed, should I have known otherwise, I would have thought that its size and handling might have been an affront to God himself. Though it may not have been my place, I christened the stick Excalibur and anointed it with holy oils. As I genuflected in awe, I turned to my right to see that the wonderous stick was accompanied by an enormous puck of the highest quality.

After I had vomited with reverence, I rested on the puck long enough for Bridgette to snap a picture with her phone, and then straddled the puck until ordered to stop by the local authorities. Their short-sightedness was frustratingly similar, as I have thrice been arrested for straddling public monuments.

Also, we saw a dead pigeon.

I have the day off today.

While I appreciate having a break, and I savored getting to sleep in a bit, I have a funny habit of turning these off days into a tiresome grind of backbreaking labor, depression, and flavorless gruel.

A day off in early May should really be a great opportunity to go outside, take a run, relax in the sunshine, and pet nearby dogs. Unfortunately, the temperature today in Minneapolis is in the low 40’s with a bitterly cold rain cascading down the streets of my neighborhood, washing all joy from the earth. I sit in the darkened basement of this house, listening to local bands destined for obscurity and futility, wearing a shirt that dates back to the mid-90’s. My fingernails are dirty, my glasses are smudged, and I am carrying the vague scent of milk. This is what happens to me when I don’t work.

Upstairs I have a laundry list of chores to complete, but at the moment I feel capable of little more than continuing the sustention of my life through Ho-Ho ingestion. Maybe later I’ll take on a more formidable task like cleaning the bathroom, paying bills or removing the colony of ticks from my scalp. For now, I can’t be bothered with such things. I’m busy enough hacking out this miserable tripe for you ingrates.

I know well how all of you love to come by here a couple times a week and mock me in my feeble attempts at happiness. You’re lucky I haven’t decided to turn this into one of those horrible, horseshit blogs where people whine about their love life or speculate on the emotional significance of college. Screw those blogs - their inane, narcissistic drivel is a waste of binary code. Who really wants to read that 4000-word manifesto about your awesome weekend? Does anybody in the real world truly desire to visit your blog to find out how great your friend Stacy from high school is? Of course not! People hate you. Suck it up, deal with it, and make your blog worth our time. Tell us about the unbridled majesty of powdered sugar or something. Come to think of it, that might be a good JLP post…

Well, that just about does it for post #231. Can’t say I enjoyed myself. Can’t say I feel any motivation to continue my raspy, labored breathing. Can’t say I won’t apply an unnecessary tourniquet to my left leg later this afternoon. This one’s been a treat for both of us.

Seriously though, how are you?

In the theater of life, it’s good to know that one can still go out and catch a feel-good comedy now and again. A few months back, I reviewed the performance of a woman with hundreds of dead cats in her home. While at times predictable and cliche, her wit and comedic insight into the world of feline carcass collection was welcomed.

Now we come to this news out of the St. Petersburg Times. I have to say, this guy’s stuff is hilarious!

DEPUTIES REPORT RAMPAGE OF NAKED, SHOCKING BEHAVIOR

By ABBIE VANSICKLE
Published May 2, 2005

——————————————————————————–

INVERNESS - An Inverness man was arrested Saturday after breaking into his neighbors’ house and threatening them, shocking himself by sticking his fingers into a lamp socket, threatening a deputy with a metal rod, running naked through his yard and chewing through a cable in a patrol car, authorities said.

Deputies were called to a home on East Dawson Drive, just behind Beall’s, at 1:35 a.m. after getting a call of a burglary in progress.

When Tabb turned, he saw a man holding a metal rod and wearing only a sheet wrapped around his waist, a report said. He was yelling that he was “ready to go to jail.”

The deputy fired a Taser at him, but it didn’t connect. The man threw dirt and rocks in the deputy’s face, the report said.

The suspect made it over the fence, losing his sheet in the process and sprinted, naked, into his home, the report said.

As he tried to force area family members out of their home, one of the victims shot him with a Taser.

That just caused the intruder to demand to be shocked some more. He grabbed a lamp, unscrewed the bulb and stuck his fingers in, shocking himself and yelling.

After Phelps was arrested, deputies say he damaged the patrol car by biting through a cable cord in the back seat.

Phelps was taken to Citrus Memorial Hospital and then booked into the county jail.

A few thoughts on the performance…

-Throwing dirt and rocks into the face of a sherriff’s deputy is both gutsy and clever. Next time, I might try to bark at him in some sort of coded language understood only by yourself. That would send it through the top!

-I liked the fact that he did all of this while naked, but it’s been done so many times before. It would have been funnier if you had only been wearing an undersized t-shirt with BBQ stains on it.

-The fingers in the lightsocket bit was brilliant! Such clever satire on America’s inefficient energy consumption!

-I was a bit puzzled when you bit through the cable in the back of the squad car; might it be better to move that gag so that it comes earlier in the performance? It would help out the pacing that way. Also, instead of biting through a cable cord, maybe you could bite through a passerby’s femoral artery?

Great stuff though, I enjoyed it quite a bit. I’ll be looking for your next performance!