The only thing that can save me, is a bride..

I talk a very good game, waxing poetic about my penchant for spelling my name in ejaculate on some poor woman's back, separating a line of pillows between me and my "lover of the moment" based on how much I thoroughly detest snuggling when intercourse isn't involved as if it was something to be proud of - but quiet as kept, I am the only heterosexual male on the face of god's green earth who has fantasized about his wedding day since childhood. Sure, the events of that magical day have gone through a number of alterations over the years - but the elements that have remained the same is how Stevie Wonder would jokingly sing "Part-Time Lover" at the beginning of the proceedings before correcting himself, the way the preacher would slip Hip Hop quotes throughout his sermon in a stealth-like manner, me and my lovely bride writing our own vows - not to mention the one and only DJ Jazzy Jeff spinning old school classics for all my friends and family during the reception. That glorious day, where a shitload of people that I dearly love help me celebrate the next chapter of my life - has been the only constant daydream that I've had over the last 20 years, outside of a rather deviant daydream where I happen to sodomize Spinderella on a bus station bathroom floor.(I'll address that at a later date)

But as of late, because of how miserable my married friends are and how they constantly contemplate putting a loaded shotgun in their collective mouths - that image of wedded bliss that has replayed over and over in my head like a Clearchannel song has become very Tarantino-esque as of late. My lovely bride-to-be running down the aisle busting off twin glocks with reckless abandon, my dear mother hopping two church rows to slice my future father-in-law's Achilles tendon while stuffing a dirty sweatsock into his mouth - I won't even go into Jazzy Jeff decapitating fools with vinyl as Stevie Wonder lifts up what I thought was a walking Cane and blasting people like that blind bastard was going duck hunting. See, my married friends don't make marriage seem like a lifelong commitment that they've come to fully embraced, more like a terminally ill cancer patient that has fully excepted their fate - or a horse after its been broken, or a newly "trained" prostitute who sees nothing wrong with giving a purposeless man all of her hard earned profits. If marriage means my wife talking to me like I was a little fucking boy, having to give Perry Mason-style closing arguments just to be allowed to grab a beer with a buddy, and having to act completely thrilled about my wife showing me her vagina once every four months - no thanks.

So yeah, I was on an anti-marriage stance for a little while - basically content with having emotionless sex with barely legal ass for the next 40 years, clumsily thrusting in some guys wife as I turn down photo's of the loving couple that rest right above the headboard. I had fully accepted the fact that getting checked for STD's would be a weekly routine for me from now on, that's until I started to notice some rather troubling recurring themes in my life - and some of the horrific lows that I had contemplated sinking to.(Even for a guy with no moral barometer like myself.) Not to mention an epiphany that I recently had after a 6 year time period, maybe I should really reconsider the whole marriage thing.

Disgruntled Ex-Boyfriends have me on speed-dial: I don't know if its just my dumb luck, or if its because I happen to deal with women who are criminally negligent when it comes their cell phones - but it seems that my number is the proverbial party line for the scorned lovers of said ladies. Usually getting your life threatened is serious business, but its happened to me so often over the years, where some heart-broken gentleman tells me how he's going to stick a jail-style shiv into my liver - I casually embrace the spirited back and for as if it was one of those Neilson television surveys. For example, this past weekend in fact - the ex-boyfriend of a woman named Carla that I know left a pretty threatening message on my cellphone that went something like like "Listen Pat-na, don't be calling this phone no-motherfucking-more. If I see you in the street, I'm going to beat your ass!" So I called the brother back, and the conversation went like this:

*phone ringing*
Sucka-for-love-ass-trick: Hello
Me: Sucka-for-love-ass-trick, did you leave a message on my phone this morning - claiming that you were going to "beat my ass"?
Sucka-for-love-ass-trick: That's not my name, but yeah.
Me: Are you actually doing this?
Sucka-for-love-ass-trick: Doing what?
Me: I mean, what are you - 14 and shit? I thought this sort of thing stopped around the time you were old enough to get yur drivers licence?
Sucka-for-love-ass-trick: Whatever man, stop calling Carla or I'll kill you!
Me: Lets cut through the limp-wristed attempts at machismo and empty rhetoric - how about I give you my address and we just handle this.(I proceeded to give him my address)
Sucka-for-love-ass-trick: Um..er..Um.
Me: Fuck it, I'll make deliveries - give me your address and you can find out if your "I'll beat your ass" talk has any weight behind it.
Sucka-for-love-ass-trick: Well.. Listen man... Umm
Me: That's what I thought you blubbering vagina. Listen motherfucker, stop calling my phone, and just get comfortable in the fact that the dude you are currently talking to is renovating your baby mamma's vagina like I was a negro Ty Pennington and shit.
Sucka-for-love-ass-trick: *Hangs up*

The funny thing about that conversation is that Carla has been a platonic friend of mine that I've known for 15 years, one who I've never had sex with by the way - yeah, I think marriage would cut down on those types of telephone encounters.

"Old English", not the 40oz: There's this nice woman from England that I met at my neighborhood bar a few months ago, an absolute joy to talk to - a rather feisty white broad in her late 40's who is the only woman that I have ever known who is an authority on boxing. I don't know what's wrong with me, I shouldn't be attracted to her, she's not ugly by any stretch of the imagination and she's not a beauty queen either - I'm indifferent about her the same way I am about rice-cakes or the musical stylings of T.I. I'll be completely honest here, the reason why I've wanted to have sex with a woman who has a union jack tattoo on her arm has nothing to do with her looks, personality, or even her affection for the art of fisticuffs - her accent is what makes my unimpressive baby's arm stand at attention. For the past week I've been fantasizing about fucking the shit out of her while shamelessly asking her to say "Hello Love!!" in which she belts out "Ello Luhv!" between thrusts - or the fact that I'd make her saying "Good Mornin' Guvnah!" after she achieved climax. My pride won't let me initiate the "courting" process though - but like a trained sniper having the assassination target in his cross-hairs, if she gives me the go ahead I'm definitely going to take that shot. Another reason why I desperately need to get married.

At last, I'm finally over my ex-girlfriend: I know that I'm going to lose my hetero-street cred addressing this issue, dudes who started using the time honored throatchop because of me will throw-up in their collective mouths after they read this - but it dawned on me this Saturday that its taken me a full 6 years to completely get over my ex-girlfriend. I mean, we broke up in 2001 for christs sake - and being that I don't think about her that much any more and have had girlfriends since then, I just assumed that I had moved on. But now that I really think about it, how I subconsciously expected her to come back to me with hat in hand admitting her mistakes(with a rainstorm providing the backdrop), how deep down I enjoyed the marital problems she was having knowing that I'd get a chance to rekindle what we once had - I now admit that I never fully recovered from that break-up. That was until this past weekend, when she asked me to write her a resume for some vh1 rap reality show that she was trying out for - after I wrote it and she thanked me, it was the first time I wished her all the best and actually meant it. It was the first time I told her that I wanted her to be happy and didn't say "..but not with the motherfucker you are with" under my breath. Ladies, it only took me 6 years to get over a relationship - I'm sitting here with a clean slate, send those wedding inquiries now that that window is open.(OK, slightly ajar)