Why Don't You Just Take ALL My Fucking Money: My Thoughts on Marriage
Women, right? …I could probably just end the article right there. Every penis-having reader sifting through Gigglestorm articles and stumbling on that sentence can probably picture at least 30 scenarios, just off the top of his head, wherein he had to sit back, sigh to himself, and take in whatever nonsense was coming at him from his girlfriend’s mouth with the knowledge that anything said in response carries about as much weight as a hot air balloon filled with a pile of bunny turds. But we oblige you, ladies, because you have a great set of tits. And personality or something. And we understand that having more than 3 emotions is probably like having a circus in your head, possibly unfolding in front of a Lilith Fair rock concert. We get it. Okay, we don’t, but bear with me here. We’re mostly empathetic to your struggle. It’s like, hey, if I had to shove a crying, slime-covered baby and, 5 seconds later, something that looks like a mutated manta ray out of the hole that bleeds CONSTANTLY and that a bunch of drunk assholes keep trying to stick things inside of, well, then I’d be pretty moody too if my boyfriend neglected to say “I love you” at least 600 times a day. To wrap this awkward introduction up before my girlfriend, maybe having one day actually taken interest in Gigglestorm and reading this far down in this article, decides that my nutsack looks like a good stress ball, I want to explain that we know that you girls can do shit that we couldn’t even fathom having crossed someone’s mind, let alone having been manifested in reality, and we give you all kinds of (thankless) leeway to keep the peace. With all that, the one thing I just can’t accept, but, sadly, probably will give in to someday, is your burning desire to spend heaps upon heaps of money on bullshit that will only last one day just so you have another excuse to take up the spotlight—you know, a wedding.
I get it that it’s nice to be the center of attention. Who doesn’t like that? Okay, maybe people with deformities. But otherwise, human beings tend to get off on people fawning over them like Lindsay Lohan…before the coke. Okay, so maybe there never was “before the coke,” but you know what I’m saying. You know what’s a cheaper alternative for getting undeserved attention? Buying a golden retriever. You may have to clean up piss and shit on the reg, and drop a C-note a month on feed bags of under-processed and over-marketed gravy-covered meat scraps, but if you do the math the dog is the much cheaper alternative. Plus the atmosphere of a wedding reception can be reached with a case of Yuengling, a deck of cards, and everyone deciding to parade around in the most uncomfortable clothes they can find in their closet. This route is way cheaper.
So how much do weddings cost? Too much! Har har. But seriously, these things can cost up to the price of a car, and that’s even for one thrown by a couple of middle class high school teachers. Think about that. You purchase a car. This is a giant pile of computer-aided machinery, created via nothing short of decades of research and development, chock full of the latest and greatest gadgets to keep your mind off of driving when you should really be paying attention to the road. This baby will last you at least 10 years, 5 if you’re a real piece of shit and only the newest model of car will get you hard while you hide in the hallway closet fapping to your daughter’s friend because, goddamn, she wears the SHIT out of those pink overalls with Dora the Explorer on them. Automobiles will take you anywhere you can dream, you know, as long as it’s not across a body of water or something. Or in New Jersey. Never go there.
This is what driving through New Jersey feels like.
A car is something solid, something long-lasting, something tangible that has benefits that outweigh the costs and maybe gets you a complimentary beej from that hooker with the suspicious protuberance on her throat. You know, something that will provide for you longer than a fucking 10 hour period. Weddings, not so much.
Let’s look at the numbers. Wedding dresses cost, on average, about a thousand dollars. That’s ten one hundred dollar bills. That’s like 5 good 8 balls, or a really fun trip to Niagara Falls where you blow most of your money the first night at Casino Niagara and piss your pants after you black out, which ultimately kills your cell phone because it was directly in front of the spillway somewhere in your side pocket. And that’s just the dress. A dress that is only worn ONCE, I might add. Think about the other bullshit that comes with a wedding ceremony. First and foremost, you have to come to terms with the fact that you’re either A) an agnostic who knows better than to waste his time with going to fucking church but has to get married in one because, Jesus Christ, that fucking generation that believes in that hocus pocus is still breathing and chances are 50% of your closest relatives are Koolaid drinkers, or B) you’re just a bad Catholic. Either way, somebody’s gonna be bribing that priest, because Lord knows those assholes won’t play ball unless you’ve paid your dues each week. So, lump sum or half-assed attendance complete with weekly God bribes, you’re paying the Catholic church its cut of the spoils.
You get the face you deserve.
Next, you have to book the place for the after party (“reception”), and I’m told by my girlfriend that this should be done something like a year in advance. I couldn’t tell you what I’m going to have for lunch tomorrow, and now I’ve got to worry about renting out some hotel or fire hall or *insert stereotypical reception locale* at least 365 days before I even step foot in it. Oh, and this costs out the ass, too—you’re lookin’ at multiple G’s if you want it done “right,” which means better than what the couple had at the last wedding you attended. Then you move onto things like food, the DJ, limousines, the photographer (usually some fucking douche bag) and the basic infrastructure of the event. Food alone can cost you anywhere from a kidney to your first born and its first born’s first born. Everybody’s getting’ paid.
Once you have the shit you need out of the way, then you get into the finer details. The REAL bullshit. Flowers. Froo-froo fucking pansy shit that dangles above your tables so, I dunno, you look like you’re getting rained on by a packing peanut factory’s waste chute or something. Party favors. Gifts for your bridal crew. More fucking flowers. More and more fucking froo-froo pansy things. Buckets of water with glass pebbles in them because, hey, why the fuck not. It’s just money. It’s just money that you worked at a thankless, life-crushing job at to make and then piss away on that fucking tablecloth with the red stitching that matches your colors. Oh, you better match that shit to your colors. If you don’t, then a black hole will open, caused solely by your aesthetic faux-pas, and suck the universe into it without so much as a warning.
All this shit costs money. And who pays for it? Back in the day (and still in India), the bride’s dad takes responsibility for the money forking. And hell, he should. You’re getting this shrew out of his house. I’m sure he’d give you his fucking beamer just to get her out of the house for an afternoon while he walks around the house in his slippers, sipping a glass of straight up JD on the rocks, pretending to be Hugh Hefner groping titty after titty and “shootin’ bow with the ‘Nuge.” He needs this. Today though? Fuck that, you’re on your own, son. Your average American can’t pick up the tab at a Denny’s, let alone pick up his daughter’s exorbitant wedding bill. Nope, you and your special lady friend are on your own. She wants it, but YOU have to pay 50% of it. Welcome to married life, sucker. Wait until the kids show up and really start fucking with your money.
So the day comes and goes. You had fun. Your best man probably embarrassed you (and then himself later when he threw up on the Maid of Honor while in the middle of telling her how much he can bench and then sloppily finger fucking her cleavage), your parents probably got drunker than they wanted, and somebody somewhere got pregnant. The next day you’re still paying on that catering bill because your check bounced because you forgot you had to pay the photographer up front because, hey, snuff films just aren’t paying his rent on time. Sure, you do get some mad notes from relatives, some you may never have even met (or even wanted to meet), but that may only amount to 10-30% of what you ended up shelling out in the end. Ultimately, you just spent 2 years of your life savings so your girlfriend will stop fucking crying about how her friends are getting married and she’s not getting any younger. Yeah, babe, I totally noticed.
Let me touch on the most egregious part of this whole affair. Before you even buy the cow and spend your hard(ly) earned money getting your family members shitfaced, you have to give her an engagement ring. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Some suckers, and not even rich suckers, spend up to ten grand on an engagement ring. Insert the record scratch sound in every Rob Schneider movie trailer. Yeah. And even your average Joe will spend around 3 to 5 K on a fucking rock. What is this thing, anyway? It’s a sparkly little lump of carbon, its molecules arranged in a specific way, which has very little use to your everyday consumer other than being a status symbol. That’s it. Look, I have a girlfriend, and she’s as honest with me as I am with her about how funny I think her farts are. Girls look at other girls’ rings. They judge them. They make comments about them to their friends and anyone who will listen. Engagement rings have no use. Maybe it’s my penis talking, but I’m a pretty utilitarian person, and anything that I can’t actually use that costs more than the dingle berry hanging off my loan, scraggly, straggler of an ass hair that I forgot to shave last week is way overpriced. Way, way overpriced. If you really want to piss yourself off, read up about how Da Beers perpetuated this notion of an engagement ring just to sell some more blood diamonds. I’m all for profiting off of the struggle of the African peoples, but pulling this shit? Too far.
So there. Fuck marriage and weddings and the like. Go off with your loved one, get eloped, travel to some far off place that you’ll both enjoy, come back and spend some time with family and friends, still be married, still get the presents, and still have some good times with those you hold dear—all while saving about ten thousand dollars and a year of decisions and stress and picking out which froo-froo pansy bullshit cloth things look good dangling above your great aunt who never leaves her house because her oxygen tanks are too heavy to lug around but just HAD to be there because god forbid a family member not show up to your fucking special ten thousand dollar day.
I don’t know why all these gay people want to get marriage legalized so fast.
-Bizob
I get it that it’s nice to be the center of attention. Who doesn’t like that? Okay, maybe people with deformities. But otherwise, human beings tend to get off on people fawning over them like Lindsay Lohan…before the coke. Okay, so maybe there never was “before the coke,” but you know what I’m saying. You know what’s a cheaper alternative for getting undeserved attention? Buying a golden retriever. You may have to clean up piss and shit on the reg, and drop a C-note a month on feed bags of under-processed and over-marketed gravy-covered meat scraps, but if you do the math the dog is the much cheaper alternative. Plus the atmosphere of a wedding reception can be reached with a case of Yuengling, a deck of cards, and everyone deciding to parade around in the most uncomfortable clothes they can find in their closet. This route is way cheaper.
So how much do weddings cost? Too much! Har har. But seriously, these things can cost up to the price of a car, and that’s even for one thrown by a couple of middle class high school teachers. Think about that. You purchase a car. This is a giant pile of computer-aided machinery, created via nothing short of decades of research and development, chock full of the latest and greatest gadgets to keep your mind off of driving when you should really be paying attention to the road. This baby will last you at least 10 years, 5 if you’re a real piece of shit and only the newest model of car will get you hard while you hide in the hallway closet fapping to your daughter’s friend because, goddamn, she wears the SHIT out of those pink overalls with Dora the Explorer on them. Automobiles will take you anywhere you can dream, you know, as long as it’s not across a body of water or something. Or in New Jersey. Never go there.
This is what driving through New Jersey feels like.A car is something solid, something long-lasting, something tangible that has benefits that outweigh the costs and maybe gets you a complimentary beej from that hooker with the suspicious protuberance on her throat. You know, something that will provide for you longer than a fucking 10 hour period. Weddings, not so much.
Let’s look at the numbers. Wedding dresses cost, on average, about a thousand dollars. That’s ten one hundred dollar bills. That’s like 5 good 8 balls, or a really fun trip to Niagara Falls where you blow most of your money the first night at Casino Niagara and piss your pants after you black out, which ultimately kills your cell phone because it was directly in front of the spillway somewhere in your side pocket. And that’s just the dress. A dress that is only worn ONCE, I might add. Think about the other bullshit that comes with a wedding ceremony. First and foremost, you have to come to terms with the fact that you’re either A) an agnostic who knows better than to waste his time with going to fucking church but has to get married in one because, Jesus Christ, that fucking generation that believes in that hocus pocus is still breathing and chances are 50% of your closest relatives are Koolaid drinkers, or B) you’re just a bad Catholic. Either way, somebody’s gonna be bribing that priest, because Lord knows those assholes won’t play ball unless you’ve paid your dues each week. So, lump sum or half-assed attendance complete with weekly God bribes, you’re paying the Catholic church its cut of the spoils.
You get the face you deserve.Next, you have to book the place for the after party (“reception”), and I’m told by my girlfriend that this should be done something like a year in advance. I couldn’t tell you what I’m going to have for lunch tomorrow, and now I’ve got to worry about renting out some hotel or fire hall or *insert stereotypical reception locale* at least 365 days before I even step foot in it. Oh, and this costs out the ass, too—you’re lookin’ at multiple G’s if you want it done “right,” which means better than what the couple had at the last wedding you attended. Then you move onto things like food, the DJ, limousines, the photographer (usually some fucking douche bag) and the basic infrastructure of the event. Food alone can cost you anywhere from a kidney to your first born and its first born’s first born. Everybody’s getting’ paid.
Once you have the shit you need out of the way, then you get into the finer details. The REAL bullshit. Flowers. Froo-froo fucking pansy shit that dangles above your tables so, I dunno, you look like you’re getting rained on by a packing peanut factory’s waste chute or something. Party favors. Gifts for your bridal crew. More fucking flowers. More and more fucking froo-froo pansy things. Buckets of water with glass pebbles in them because, hey, why the fuck not. It’s just money. It’s just money that you worked at a thankless, life-crushing job at to make and then piss away on that fucking tablecloth with the red stitching that matches your colors. Oh, you better match that shit to your colors. If you don’t, then a black hole will open, caused solely by your aesthetic faux-pas, and suck the universe into it without so much as a warning.
All this shit costs money. And who pays for it? Back in the day (and still in India), the bride’s dad takes responsibility for the money forking. And hell, he should. You’re getting this shrew out of his house. I’m sure he’d give you his fucking beamer just to get her out of the house for an afternoon while he walks around the house in his slippers, sipping a glass of straight up JD on the rocks, pretending to be Hugh Hefner groping titty after titty and “shootin’ bow with the ‘Nuge.” He needs this. Today though? Fuck that, you’re on your own, son. Your average American can’t pick up the tab at a Denny’s, let alone pick up his daughter’s exorbitant wedding bill. Nope, you and your special lady friend are on your own. She wants it, but YOU have to pay 50% of it. Welcome to married life, sucker. Wait until the kids show up and really start fucking with your money.
So the day comes and goes. You had fun. Your best man probably embarrassed you (and then himself later when he threw up on the Maid of Honor while in the middle of telling her how much he can bench and then sloppily finger fucking her cleavage), your parents probably got drunker than they wanted, and somebody somewhere got pregnant. The next day you’re still paying on that catering bill because your check bounced because you forgot you had to pay the photographer up front because, hey, snuff films just aren’t paying his rent on time. Sure, you do get some mad notes from relatives, some you may never have even met (or even wanted to meet), but that may only amount to 10-30% of what you ended up shelling out in the end. Ultimately, you just spent 2 years of your life savings so your girlfriend will stop fucking crying about how her friends are getting married and she’s not getting any younger. Yeah, babe, I totally noticed.
Let me touch on the most egregious part of this whole affair. Before you even buy the cow and spend your hard(ly) earned money getting your family members shitfaced, you have to give her an engagement ring. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Some suckers, and not even rich suckers, spend up to ten grand on an engagement ring. Insert the record scratch sound in every Rob Schneider movie trailer. Yeah. And even your average Joe will spend around 3 to 5 K on a fucking rock. What is this thing, anyway? It’s a sparkly little lump of carbon, its molecules arranged in a specific way, which has very little use to your everyday consumer other than being a status symbol. That’s it. Look, I have a girlfriend, and she’s as honest with me as I am with her about how funny I think her farts are. Girls look at other girls’ rings. They judge them. They make comments about them to their friends and anyone who will listen. Engagement rings have no use. Maybe it’s my penis talking, but I’m a pretty utilitarian person, and anything that I can’t actually use that costs more than the dingle berry hanging off my loan, scraggly, straggler of an ass hair that I forgot to shave last week is way overpriced. Way, way overpriced. If you really want to piss yourself off, read up about how Da Beers perpetuated this notion of an engagement ring just to sell some more blood diamonds. I’m all for profiting off of the struggle of the African peoples, but pulling this shit? Too far.
So there. Fuck marriage and weddings and the like. Go off with your loved one, get eloped, travel to some far off place that you’ll both enjoy, come back and spend some time with family and friends, still be married, still get the presents, and still have some good times with those you hold dear—all while saving about ten thousand dollars and a year of decisions and stress and picking out which froo-froo pansy bullshit cloth things look good dangling above your great aunt who never leaves her house because her oxygen tanks are too heavy to lug around but just HAD to be there because god forbid a family member not show up to your fucking special ten thousand dollar day.
I don’t know why all these gay people want to get marriage legalized so fast.
-Bizob
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