Except for the veggies, I don't ordinarily eat this type of fare. I am a confirmed ocean fish devotee, preferring fresh cuts of tuna, salmon, sea bass, shark and other saltwater creatures. But my lady friend and I were hungry after several rounds of dancing to a great Motown oldies band, so I broke training and chowed down on the roast beef particularly. A pool of spicy mustard as a dipping sauce and I was off to the races. I lost track of how many times I went back (the champagne took away all reason) and then my lady wanted to "feed me cake" in the grand wedding tradition. So I took in forkfuls of both types of cake to achieve a sugar high, and we did some more dancing to work it all off.
The next morning, however, I paid the price for my dietary indiscretions. I awoke with a very full feeling in my gut. I sauntered nekkid (a Southern spelling, you understand) into the bathroom and sat astride the porcelain. It was now time for the "I Doo" portion of the wedding ceremony, and I could already tell it was not going to be an easy ritual for me. My system, in fact, is used to easy sliders from those friendly denizens of the deep, so I'm sure it was a bit puzzled by suddenly having to process all that beef and bread and cake, washed down by the dehydrating effects of the bubbly, of which I ordinarily do not partake.
Back to and on the toilet. I began rocking back and forth in an attempt to coax out of the back gate the hard, dry results of my reception intake. Several odorless farts started things off, and then the head of Mr. Hankey On Steroids made his initial appearance, ostensibly headed straight down into the bowl.
But he wanted an agonizingly slow and grand entrance -- and lots of noise to boot. Believe me, he got it. I don't think I've ever grunted so long and loud in my life, as inch by molasses-flowing-inch he revealed more and more of himself to the porcelain tide pool waiting to whisk him away to his honeymoon at the Recycling Resort in Sewageville, USA.
Finally, after having the old sphincter stretched to the limit by this firm, chocolate composite of groom's cake and red meat, my ordeal was over. With a resounding ploop -- not plop -- I gave my relieved blessing to eight wide inches of former post-wedding ceremony indulgence that I had so cavalierly consumed under the influence, thinking there would be no hell to pay.
When I stood up, turned around and peered down at this rascal, I noted that he hadn't even had the decency to taper on me towards the end. He hadn't let the tears of all the women in the church and their gooey gushing later at the reception soften him up one little bit. He had forced me to say, "I Doo!" with a vengeance, making me pay for every bite of roast beef and wedding cake a thousand times over.
But in the end it was all for a good cause -- supporting my beautiful cousin, who married a redheaded dude like myself, a man whom had earned my immediate trust from the first time I shook his hand and called him "Red."
Even if the rites of passage afterwards were definitely grounds for outright divorce.