The registry office weddings are a
sheer study in classiness. Saturday mornings, the families gather,
the screaming children, elderly fag-ash Lil parents, men squeezed
into morning suits that push their stomachs up to meet their chins, a
shade of grey the colour of tarmac. And they all have those strange
prop hats that they carry but never wear.
The stars are of course the women. The
bride, often in blood red or fuchsia pink, surrounded by her
entourage of overweight bridesmaids dressed the same only less so.
All smoke like an industrial revolution. The fabrics they wear do not
actually come from this planet, small satin and taffeta creatures on
nearby extra-solar planets are brutally harvested to make these
garments, which are manufactured by green skinned alien beings in
slave labour conditions. Tentacles nailed to benches, they are forced
to make size 22 ivory dresses with a sort of oversized belt thing.
The finished garments are then sent to
bridal shops, the only trading outlets in the galaxy that stock such
creations.
Why every single groom doesn’t do a
runner, I have no idea. Because, as so few men sadly know is a
special dimension reserved for men who decide to leave their partners
at the altar. It is not one of punishment, it is one of reward. All
are assigned useful projects to keep the under fabric of the Universe
running smoothly, and have their blood transfused out and replaced
with platinum laced nectar as a reward for not having children.
They spend their days procreating
knowledge by contemplation of the beautiful. Just like Socrates said.
Copyright Bloody
Mulberry 07/09/2013
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