Oh Master Merrow! I’d be overcome with joy had you not decided to roast my pet Vietnamese Potbelly pig “Rhonda” for your union. Ah, since I’ve the spotlight let me now describe to you all the torment that has been this wedding fiasco.
His Gluttonness decided early on to have one of those horrid “theme” weddings. “Oh delightful!,” you chime. Would you care to know the theme of this particular affair? Would you? Oh I know you simply must. Well, you see Master Merrow had a particular vision during one of his insulin coma/slumber sessions in which a veritable Hallmark message from hell was delivered to him. The result? A “Wherever Chris Goes, Criso” themed wedding.
I was immediately summoned from my chambers, and they are chambers. With bars. And barbed wire. And guard dogs that I am quite sure are rabid. I digress, my friends. Master Marshmallow instructed me to contact all available lard merchants in the area for to secure the cheapest possible bulk-rate fat-laiden goo. Shudder
Eventually, after having contacted every caterer in a ten mile radius, collecting samples of various entrees, and bringing them back for His Lardship, it was decided that the wedding feast would be provided by the Hostess brand product outlet on route 110. Now that said issue has been settled, I am to find fifty-four factory-second pinatas. His Non-gagreflexiveness was thrilled when I found one with the body of a donkey and the head of a rooster. He giggled nonstop for two days until thoroughly soiling himself and the kiddie pool filled with cherry cola he so often uses as a bath.
Finally we have the venue. Most churches are not equipped to handle Master Merrow due to both his toddler-traumatizing girth and his having swallowed his own soul one evening after mistaking it for a fried appetizer. They did, however, welcome him openly when it was discovered he had a penchant for pedophilia. Truly man/boy love is an event to bond over, so said the parishiner I spoke to whilst he breathed heavily into the phone and asked if I’d any sins to confess or pictures of said sins.
I must end here, for Master Marmalade requires a thick coating of Astro-glide prior to being fitted for his tuxedo. You’ve no idea how many gallons of paint it takes to render a circus tent black and white. Did I mention that the best man is the Pillsbury Dough Boy? Oh, and the ceremony shall be performed by the Reverend Colonel Sanders. I believe I shall disguise myself as one of the pinatas and end this all gracefully.
Monkeybutler Eric: “Aiming to please, stabbing to kill. Since 1744.”