A Ghetto Fabulous Wedding

So, when we sit around at Ghetto Genius HQ and talk about shit, we talk about the most random shit you can think of. Drinking, smoking, farting, fucking, my mom…nothing is off limits.  Well, except for the fart and shit talk usually, because H-Bomb is all Squeamy Squeamerton about it - like she doesn’t drop deuces, but bouquets of fucking daisies...bitch please. Anyway, with wedding season in full swing, we got to talking about some of the fucked up shit we’ve done and seen at weddings, which led to what kind of fucked up shit would happen at our own Ghetto Genius-style weddings. Grab a cocktail, sit your ass down, read and laugh because you're about to embark on how shit would go down if three of us had our way and how one of ours actually went down. We are some crazy fucks. Enjoy bitches!


L-Train:
So, everybody knows by now that I have mad love for the black man. MAD. LOVE. I don’t want to pigeon-hole myself or whatever, but that’s my deal. I have two “ideal” wedding scenarios, both of which would work with a black man, but only one would work with Whitey. The Whitey Wedding would be all romantical and shit. On the beach, some place hot and tropical, sunset, bare feet, just the two of us…very sweet and quiet and loving, all of which is good shit. You can see how this would work with either black or white men. HOW-FUCKING-EVER…

When I go to a wedding, I want to party the fuck down. Anybody who has ever been to a black wedding will tell you: Ain’t no wedding like a black folks’ wedding. Brothers and sisters be GETTIN’ IT. What I love about black weddings is almost the same as what I love about black churches – the music. You’ve been to the weddings where all the bridesmaids get white-girl wasted and dance like dick faces to “Celebration” or “White Wedding” or some other stupid fucking overplayed-the-fuck-out-of-it-in-the-80’s bullshit. 

Every second of music played at my wedding will be precisely planned to ensure the fucking D.J. doesn’t slip in some “Twist and Shout” or other shit that ain’t on the fuckin’ list. Speaking of lists, over the years, I have made a list of songs that will NOT be played at or around my wedding day. All the ones mentioned so far are on that list of eardrum bleeders. Real talk: If I have to hear “Old Time Rock and Roll” and watch drunk, over-dressed white people dance to it one more fucking time, I will just start capping bitches. I want Snoop Dogg and Marvin Gaye and Rev. Green and Curtis Mayfield.  This is MY DAY, BITCHES, and no fucking Bob Seger will be had.

Let me break it down for you:

1) I’m walking down the aisle to Snoop Dogg’s, “It Ain’t No Fun (if the Homies Can’t Have None)” and the bridesmaids and groomsmen will be my backup dancers. Anybody who doesn’t get up and dance will be politely told to get the fuck out. Also, if you don’t know the words, you don’t belong here, get the fuck out.

2) I will be dressed like a teeny-tiny white version of Patti LaBelle. And I will be gettin’ it.

3) The ceremony will be 5 minutes long, and Stevie Wonder will be singing “As” for 3 of those minutes. Y’all are gonna need to shut the fuck up for those 3 minutes. For real. 

4) You know how white people blow bubbles and shit instead of throwing rice or bird seed or whatever? Well. Bear with me. Everybody at MY motherfucking party gets a blunt as a party favor.  You can throw that shit at us as we leave the church, then pick it back up and smoke it. Don’t worry about saving some for later. There will be trays of them passed throughout the night, along with 40’s and all the fucking Henny you can drink. That’s better than some fucking bubbles or bird seed or some shit, right? Like who wants soap in their hair or a fucking bra full of bird seed when they could have a blunt instead? Nomotherfuckingbody, that’s who.

5) Those of you who read our blog know us all pretty well by now. So you know that J-Wunder loves him some fried fucking chicken, and that H-Bomb can cook up some fucking greens. No black wedding would be complete without either of those things, along with all the other soul food I love so much. Fried fucking chicken, collard greens, macaroni and cheese and cornbread? Fuck yeah!! Y’all gonna be some fat, happy motherfuckers when I’m through with you! 

6) And, finally, my favorite moment at any event filled with my African American brothers and sisters from other mothers and misters: THE MOTHERFUCKING CUPID SHUFFLE. Aside from the movies, have you ever seen 200 black people – ages 6 to 96 – dance in unison? And enjoy every fucking second of it? Shit doesn’t get real at a black wedding until Granny gets on the dance floor to do the Shuffle. And when she does, you’re gonna want to step over there and give Big Mama some room. At the end of it all, I’ve had a great party with all the people I love, eating, drinking, smoking, and dancing. And then I get to take my Mandingo back to the room…ya heard me?


H-Bomb:
I am pretty sure my dream wedding cannot really occur, because I cannot have a same sex marriage at the local Chik-Fil-A on a Sunday. Until that day comes, I will have to settle for my 2nd dream wedding. On my dad's side I am the only biological child and grandchild (my brothers are the step-kids/grand kids from my mom's other hoe-strolls), so the day I tell them someone liked me enough to put a ring on it, I can pretty much write my ticket for whatever classy, 5 star, black tie affair that I want to have.

Fuck.That.

You know what is worse than a wedding where you know the bride fucked most of the bridesmaids, all of the groomsmen (or other bridesmaids/groomsmen, it's 2012, we don't discriminate) and probably at least one of the officiants? A stuffy, boring-ass wedding where no one dances, the chicken Kiev is cold and the open bar only lasts 2 hours. BTW - that should never be considered an "open bar". More like a cock tease.

Let me repeat myself, in case your short term memory is fuzzy, or you are drunk (guilty): Fuck.That.

Since I am probably only going to do this 3 or 4 times and this may be the only time I am not knocked up when it happens, I want this to be the funnest, most redonkulous shindig this side of Toddlers and Tiaras and My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding. I want people to talk about it for years to come and then it go down as folklore, only to be discussed reverently, in hushed tones.

First things, first - The dress. I am not one of those prissy, bitches that wants a princess ball-gown with 8 layers of tulle and taffeta. I live in Florida and with the seasons of: ball-sweat hot, Africa-hot, hurricane, and 3 days of winter, I am thinking I need something more along the lines of mesh, linen or a nice breathable white garbage bag. Something that I don't care if I sweat, spill drinks or BBQ sauce on...which brings me to my next item.

The Food. My friends and I like to get fucked up and do fucked up shit and my wedding day will be no different. However, in the midst of all the fuckery and foolery, we also like to get our eat the fuck on. My wedding will have not one, but TWO caterers. McCray's Ribs and The Brass Ring. Real Talk. McCray's the best goddamn ribs in town, and they used to be a free standing rib shack on the side of the road in Mangonia Park until those ignant assholes made them move to Raw-Vera, because they wouldn't give them a fucking permit. I call racism. Where is Al Sharpton when I need his busted wig ass. But I digress. When people come to visit me they go to at least one of these places, so it is only fitting that my two favorite places cater my wedding. Plus, it is good drunk people food. Oh, and there WILL be an open bar, all night, until every last mother fucker is drunk, dead or trying to get a ride to rehab. Moving on.

The Entertainment. I want the band at the end of The Hangover for my reception. I want my party-goers dancing to shit like "Candy Shop" and "Back That Azz Up," and with that band it is a guaran-fucking-tee that my 94 year old grandma will be shaking her glass, waiting for another scotch on the rocks, and trying not to break a hip from busting a move. Speaking of music, there is a debate in my family as to whether I am walking down the aisle to "Sympathy for the Devil" or "It's getting hot in Herre," but as my dad has said in the past when I mention this quandary, "If you are actually getting married, I don't give a fuck what you walk down the aisle to. But if you pick that stupid ass "Butterfly Kisses" as our dance, I swear I will walk off the floor and leave your ass standing there." Like a mother fucking boss. My first dance with my spouse will of course be to Celine Dion. Also, like a mother fucking boss.

We ate, we drank, we got the borracha dancers from that video to shake they asses. And now it is time to have some more fun. What classy affair is complete without a bouncy castle? Not this one, that is for goddamn sure. Oh, and if the little fucking rat-bastard children who I am obligated to invite to this wedding so their parents can get drunk enough to have their sloppy, quarterly drunk hump think for one second I will not push them out of the bouncy castle so me and my friends can start drunk BBQ sauce wrestling, they need to check themselves before I wreck them. That will be the only time I get all Bridezilla.

Speaking of Bridezilla, I know I won't be one of those psycho brides that make their attendants do a bunch of fucked up shit on the big day because "it's my day." Lame. No, the only request that I am going to have is that they have to keep, is to wear jean jackets, with the cut-off sleeves with mine and my spouse's initials monogrammed AND bedazzled on the back, that we are giving them. And it is their attendant gift. BOOM!

As soon as I find a park/campground with RV hook-ups and a loose open container policy, I am going to get on planning the obvious social event of the millennium.

Shit. I might want to get a boyfriend/girlfriend (or both, let's move this fucking party to Utah) before I start planning. I wonder if I can make a board for this fuckery on Pinterest?


J-Wunder:
You know what I love about my contributors? They are fucking crazy. Straight up, 100%, crazy and some outrageous mother fuckers. I wouldn't lie about this shit. For reals.

One day it's inevitable the big day is gonna come. I, J-Wunder, will be giving some vows and making promises to some broad who finally got me pussy whooped. Man, that's a funny ass joke. I crack myself up sometimes. Seriously though...one day if it WERE to happen, I'm gonna need to really think about how the fuck I plan to celebrate this special day with my boo. Plain and simple, I would do exactly what L-Train and H-Bomb described with a few minor changes. For starters, that Celine Dion bullshit will NOT be playing at my mother fucking wedding. Fuck all that. I dare the DJ to play some of that shit...mother fucker WILL get stabbed in back of the knee caps. And as much as L-Train has the bomb ass playlist of music ready to go, you damn well know that no party is a party without a little N.W.A. and 2 Live Crew (face down, ass up is all I'm sayin')...so on top of all the rap that will be playing, this has to be at the top of the list. Don't get it twisted though...2Pac is going to be right fucking up there too. California Love, bitches.

See, there's no method to my madness. I'm a simple fucking guy. I don't ask for much other than booze, food, music, sports and a ton of sex. Guess what? All that shit WILL be at my wedding. Fried chicken with other amazing fried food that will make you shit black and yellow for 6-8 weeks - CHECK. A full bar that would make a recovering alcoholic give up sobriety just to drink til they died - Double CHECK. Music to make those crippled ass relatives attempt to do a head spin - KA-BLIKATY-BLAMO CHE...CHE...CHECK! Big screen tv's so no man, woman or sports fan misses the "big game" - Shit dog...CHECK, CHECK, CHECK ALL UP IN THIS BITCH! And don't think for a goddamn second that there won't be any wings, nachos and a fountain of bacon (yes I said fountain of bacon) for the beloved sports fans because there will be...you can bet on that shit. Hell, let's go for fucking broke and throw a goddamn sports book in that mother fucker too. Seems legit to me. Ok, where the fuck was I before I got all crazy? Oh yeah...my goddamn dream wedding.

Rooms decked out to the 9's with a private hot tub, so much fucking lube you could start a fire, condoms (for her pleasure and for his little wang), rose pedals picked from the richest neighbors front yard, plastic dolls, leather masks and double headed dildo's for the kinky and drunk guests who plan to "go out on a limb" for a night - Don't make me say it...CHHHHHHHEEEEEECCCCCCK!

This is my day. My special fucking day. Ain't no day like that day, that's for damn sure, son! It'll go down in history as the most fucked up, awesome, memorable, "why the fuck did I go?!", bad ass, "I can't believe I fucked him/her", mind blowing, "please God forgive me", "a mother fucker did what?!", unimaginable, "bitch gave me what?!", "I should have used a condom", most talked about, "I didn't know he barked when he drank tequila?", "That roofie colada wasn't meant for him", wedding event EVER. And you can take that shit to the bank.

BOOM bitches...because it's about to go off like dy-no-mite!

Where's my black book? It's time to find me a "forever bitch".


Flo-Rich:
I was forced to marry the same man. TWICE. Shit, “forced” is such a strong word. Fine, I was only forced the second time. I was TRICKED the first time. Don’t automatically assume I had an arranged marriage because I’m Asian. Racist mother fuckers.

So it’s hard for me to imagine grand wedding scenarios like the rest of the CREW because I’m still scratching my mother fucking head as to how this playa tricked me into marrying him after dating for only 18 days the first time around.

“Get the fuck out, Flo-Rich. That’s some bullshit. Ain’t no one get married in no 18 days,” you might be thinking.

Real talk, bitches. I don’t play around when it comes to love and good deals at Costco.

Just how did I find this gem? Remember Myspace? It was my modern-day cupid. I got a message in my inbox from some boy in Miami. It sounded a little nerdy, but he asked if he could call and chat sometime. Since I had incredibly low standards and would fuck anything that didn’t outrun me, I replied with a simple “Fuck yeah. Call me. 310-xxx-xxxx.” I know. I’m romantic. Don’t hate.

A few phone calls later, he asked to visit me in Los Angeles. “Sure, buddy, it’s your dime.” I know how men like to talk a good game but never follow through. This fool surprised me by showing up in my city. And shocked me even further by not being a fucking murderer and shit. I had never dated anyone like him before. He didn’t live with his parents. He had his own car. He had a FOR REAL high school diploma and not one of those GED messes. The boy had manners and charm and he treated me like a fucking queen.

So when he asked me to marry him a week after he landed in L.A., I said what was in my heart: “Why not.”

Eleven days after that, we flew to Vegas and got married at the Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel. Me: black cocktail dress. Him: Work interview suit. We didn’t shell out for Elvis though. That mother fucker was only available for an additional charge, and we weren’t trying to live the life of katrillionaires. But my man did splurge for the seven rose bouquet instead of the three rose bouquet. I got myself a real man.

Best $245 we ever spent.

And that second “forced” marriage? Another time, thugs. My five-year anniversary is coming up. Maybe I’ll share it then.