The groom's father was a terror, cursing over the microphone about b-movie starlets, the tangent becoming more and more like free jazz with each lewd stammer. "C-C-C-Carolyn Brandt's butt... mmmmmmmmmmmm... mmmmmagic was made!" A genuine lawmaker but hardly a peacekeeper, Truman Nierestein has been sherriff 'round these parts for 40 years and he just cracked his mid-50s: crisis time.
His son, Kelley, was about to tie the knot with Marjorie Bierbauch, ultra-distant cousin of Kelley's, yes, but just too dang cute not to marry. If I just stand in this doorway for a bit longer, thought the groom, I can see reality for all its truths and untruths.
"Where is that boy?!" shouted Truman. An elderly man in the rear of the chapel halted spanking duties and shouted, "Tell us about Carolyn Brandt!" The groom bit into a gold coin. Strains of Keith Jarrett's moans and Basketcase gargles loomed. It was getting downright fucking weird feeling.
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