I, the Single Guy, have to go to another fucking wedding. They’re out of control. They’re devastating my summer. It’s to the point where they take up roughly three out of four weekends. All because my friends are dipshits. I think they’re getting married because they hear other people are getting married. Really fucking smart, assholes.

At least I’m not always a groomsman. That shit blows. Soberly escorting a bunch of old ladies down a church and then smiling like a jackass in one million pictures is not my idea of a fun Saturday in the summer. Sleeping until noon, getting a solid base by the pool, taking car bombs until 4 A.M., and dragging some random chick back to my layer is.

I don’t bring dates to weddings. I always go solo. My invite always reads “And Guest”, but it might as well read “And Whiny Bitch You’ll End Up Babysitting”. Eff that. Too many bad experiences. I prefer to take my chances with the field at the reception.

My college buddies and I always arrive at the ceremony thirty seconds before its starts. We sit in the furthest row back and are the first ones to leave. We make three trips to the reception bar before most people make one. We gobble up meatballs and whatever chicken they serve and then scout out potential targets. We determine which bridesmaids have the lowest self esteem. We identify sisters and female cousins who might put out. A lot of them aren’t picky. I will make a run at three of them. If I fail it wasn’t meant to be. I bat around .300 at weddings. That’s solid. That’s kick ass. That’s Ted Williams. You’re not doing any better than that. “Wedding Crashers” is a full of shit. Too many boyfriends and ugly chicks and family members to pull off those type of results.

My college buddies and I drink more than anyone else at the reception because we pay no attention to speeches, dances, or cake cutting. We offend at least three of the groom’s relatives, but they always deserve it. We really enjoy watching the bouquet toss because there is some serious desperation on display.

If it’s an unsuccessful reception we go to local bars in our suits. We look important. We relive some kick ass college stories. We talk about what a bitch the bride is. We stay up until five in the morning and hotel management threatens to kick us out on three separate occasions. It’s comforting to know there are a few of us that are still awesome.

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