A New Appreciation for Matrimony

Another reason why it's not good to be related to me: I will crash through your house at midnight with 25 drunks that I may or may not know, waking your wife and kids, leaving stains that only an industrial strength sand blaster and an exorcist can remove. In my defense, this is what happens when you attend a wedding in a winery; things get a little blurry. So, when one of the attendees decided to bust into my aunt's room while she was asleep so he could stand on her bed and salute her, I just had to go with it. How am I supposed to know if that's some kind of Scandinavian wedding tradition? The last group I need on my case are the Norwegians; those people are animals.

For those of you who haven't been keeping track, our own sweet Danza joined the ranks of the wedded on Saturday. At least, that's what I'm told. In all honesty, the weekend spun out of control around 10 PM on Thursday. One minute, I'm eating nachos with my friends, and the next, I'm running through a park at full speed, planning out the wording for my surrender letter to the FBI. Once we'd established that, the weekend just continued along the same lines. Lots of alcohol, some great food, a nice reception, and the craziest dance party you've ever seen.

I'm not a professional mathematician or anything, but I'd be willing to bet there's some sort of equation that maps a man's drunkenness with his willingness to dance. Something like, for every ounce of alcohol consumed, the guy becomes twice as willing to moonwalk in public. So, after a few hours in the winery, the dance floor looked like an episode of Soul Train. An episode of Soul Train full of white people bordering on incontinence, but an episode nonetheless. And lest you think I'm untainted here, I was leading the charge out there. I broke it down like the lost member of Kriss Kross out there. I had an idea to stop after throwing the bride's great aunt into the wedding cake trying to attempt the helicopter, but I just couldn't. I could go on for hours about this weekend, but let's just say that if the women of Dallas/Fort Worth were especially amorous on Saturday night, I take full responsibility. I shake that moneymaker like a maraca in the hands of a speed freak, and I don't care who knows it.