Of course it was beautiful: no one spends that much money so people later would say it was an ugly wedding. Everything was perfect, from the flower arrangements to the flower girl. The priest put no one to sleep, the vows the couple had written did not make anyone cringe, the limos were on time, and the photographer/videographer discreetly worked from the rafters. The marriage ceremony was a success, and all was well.
Then came the reception.
Survivors later reported bleeding ears, exhaustion, and being afraid for their lives. Most do not remember how they got home, and that was even after the liquor had worn off.
The cocktail hour had started out well, up until the guests realized it was an actual hour of standing around waiting for the wedding party to finish their individual photo sessions. There are only so many pigs-in-a-blanket and actual roast pig one can scarf down while still maintaining your dignity and catching up with relatives whose names you can never remember. When the primary couple arrived, the champagne already was almost gone and more was added to the bill. The party finally moved upstairs and was allowed into the main room so everyone could sit for hours while staring at the china.
The D.J. made the usual introductions of bridesmaids, ushers, parents, various relatives, and anyone else who had lined up in the waiting area, before finally bringing out the bride and groom and forcing them to slow dance with everyone. This took 45 minutes, with the antipasto platters only just being distributed at the end of it.
The couple had to make the circuit of the room to say “Hi” to everyone and collect their entrance fees, so while that went on the D.J. invited children up to the dance floor and set them loose to torment the rest of the guests. The appropriate parents corralled them and many used them as an excuse to leave before the pasta: “The baby’s tired” is an escape clause that will never fail you.
Hour 3 – the salad course – had a scavenger hunt commence before the D.J. took a break to smoke and stop his hands from shaking. Hour 4.5 – the main course – turned into Hour 6.5 as meals were swapped and it was revealed that not enough fish had been made in spite of everyone supposedly filling out the response card and later repeating what they had earlier written. There was a bit of a delay while the kitchen staff talked the chef down from the second-floor balcony.
Hour 8 – sherbet – featured line dancing. Everyone booed, then did all the steps by heart. After the D.J. released them, one of the bridesmaids made a break for it only to find that the doors were to be locked until after the remnants of the last course had been collected. She spent the rest of the night holding onto the doorknob and sobbing.
Dessert began with the wedding cake being smushed into the couple’s faces and ended with the bride chucking her bouquet and garter at unfortunates who took the items as tokens of doom. Then, the Viennese Hour (aka Hour 10) began – guests looked at the tables groaning with pastries and inwardly wept for humanity before forcing themselves up there out of obligation. A cousin nobody speaks to asked for a doggy bag.
The D.J., running out of new songs and slipping in some repeats, discreetly indicated that the party was ending by dragging the bride and groom up to his sound system and forcing them to slow dance again on their bleeding feet. He then killed the music, asked the staff to turn on the house lights, and requested his payment before allowing the couple to leave the floor.
The doors finally were opened and everyone ran to the couple to say what a great time they had while planning what they would later complain to all their friends before dashing out to their cars and driving into the rising sun. The catering hall staff faced the carnage left behind – their work would continue until the end of days.