Hello all,
That Guy, formerly THA, is happy to guest post here on nprjunky.net. Hopefully after reading this little post, NPR Junky will allow me to keep my fingernails, but we shall see.
This last week, we had the pleasure of attending one of my relatives wedding in Cape May. She is a fine person whom I barely know, but my family was there and we had the joy of seeing the Jersey shore in all its mid-summer medical waste laden glory. The genetically modified horseflies now aren’t satisfied with giving you a little sting when they bite. No, now they burrow into flesh until blood leaks down the extremity in question. If anyone ever invites you to a nude beach on the Jersey shore, be sure to wear full chain mail armor in the manner of a level 43 Tauren Shaman. War Stomp not included.
The company was fine, the setting picturesque, and the concept was nothing short of some estrogen laden fantasy wedding from a tear stained Sweet Valley High book. Conceptualization and realization however are two opposing actions however. Nowhere in SVH does the blushing bride, walking amid her family and friends on a breezy June day, have to strain and adjust her earplugs to drown the din of the generator choking mercilessly in the background like an uninvited vagrant, intoxicated on Scope mouthwash and vanilla extract. The string quartet, dutifully and skillfully playing their part dressed in black on a beach in June in New Jersey, demonstrated more than average skill in not only executing their performance, but by simultaneously setting up a still to manufacture four potent caplets of cyanide to forever silence the aural intrusion.
The highlight of the service for me was the eloquence of the minister performing the beach ceremony. Never before have I heard such reverence for the Creator captured in the artful expression, “Let’s tap into Jesus today.”
Pardon? Tap into Jesus? You tap into a keg. A juicebox. That sweet booty you’ve been after since that night you drank so much scotch you got turned on while passing out to a QVC special on the Lord of the Rings collectible coaster set. You do not “tap” into Jesus. Let’s just imagine that convo for a sec shall we? “Hi, I’m That Guy. Who are you Mr. Beardy?” “I’m the Son of He who has no Name, your Saviour and source of mid-sentence capitalization.” “Mind if I tap into you?” “Don’t let the hair fool you slick, I have your internet history saved on this scroll, and I will use it. Firefox doesn’t erase scrolls.”
So, this little expression, coupled with the quotation, that damned quotation penned by a very drunk time traveling H.G. Wells from Corinthians about what looooove is just about gave me an embolism that would have had the bride wearing red, not white. If you are getting married, my only advice is to quote something eloquent about love from an authority on the subject, not a serial masturbator who believed that lepers could be used to pick locks, or that bathing was only useful to ward off spider monkeys armed with hummus guns.
All in all though, lovely weekend. The sea was stinky with the stench of brine and barley. The pancakes tasted of kelp and lost dreams, and though I may rant about a few particulars, two fine humans decided to finally take the leap together and merge their credit histories. A thing of beauty from an actuarial standpoint anyway.
NPR Junky has also asked me to comment on beach traffic, which I saw from the DE side of things for the first time last Friday. Mile after mile of cars, trucks, and Mountain Dew swilling humanity. It was glorious. So glorious, I cannot fathom why one would torment oneself for a few hours entertaining the stench of seagull droppings and suntan lotions. If I wanted to simulate the experience without the expenditure of time, money, gas, and frustration, I think I would just rub a little coconut butter under my nose, and have the clerk at Seven Eleven bludgeon me with a Jumbo Spicy Bite. Yeah.
