Trista & Ryan's Wedding, Part 3

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Marry Me A Lot

"Well, here we are," the caffeinated-to-the-point- of-abject-sarcasm Chris "Holy Holy Holy Is The Lord Of Hosts" Harrison fairly shouts, grinning like a feline of the "Cheshire" variety and walking the wrong way down the long wedding aisle, thinking if he stays there long enough he still might achieve his wedding-night goal of accidentally marrying Trista himself and ending tons of heartache currently being experienced by both him and the actual groom, though each for entirely different reasons. Decked out in a black suit amongst trillions of pink-fabric-covered chairs like a fly on a coffin at a child's funeral in The Land Of Make Believe (and other prepositions as well!), Chris ambles purposefully toward the camera as if he's trying to bust through the fourth wall and join us on the other side. However, contractually obligated not to unearth his T-Mobile cell phone and hit "1 + area code + alternate dimension code" in an attempt to dial his ass out into our universe, he continues gamely, shouting that we've reached, "truly, the moment we've all been waiting for!" Oy! We've only just begun and already we're up to the Viennese Table? Save me one of those kosher cookies shaped like a leaf with the chocolate in the middle. God, I love the taste of marzipan in the morning.

You'll have to forgive me as we move along this week. I've been to a lot of weddings, but due to my cultural background, a majority of them seem to have been tacky Jewish weddings in New Jersey. So I'm going to try and keep up as the shiksa princess walks her Procession Through WASPland, but I hope you'll pardon me if I still express just a wee bit of concern that it's going to be just short of impossible to lift that girl up on a chair during the Hora, what with her being weighed down by $1.3 million of gaudy, jappy bling. Not that it's any of my problem. I'll just sit here, recapping in the dark. Don't worry about me. I'm fine.

Six words in, I'm losing the recapping thread already. Sorry.

Chris walks through a noxious cloud of gay-carrying pink (that's how it's spread, you know) and emerges on the other side all but singing that insidious "Things Just Keep Getting Better" song, continuing on: it's "the night Trista and Ryan finally become husband and wife, in what has to be the most anticipated wedding since Charles and Diana." All of which goes to show that a high-profile, high-expense, high-on-their-own- inflated-sense-of-self-importance wedding automatically equals a lifelong commitment to decorum, good graces, and each other, just as was true in that aforementioned trumped-up, televised marriage of two people who you were never exactly sure of what they themselves did to deserve such unquestioned luxury. At least in this case, the producers of said wedding have taken the pains to move the complaints about the paparazzi, the feeling of a car wreck, and the death of a small but significant piece of our global culture to before the wedding, rather than after. Fleiss, you thought of everything!

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