As your cross-cultural ambassador, I must report to you that I have been to some bad weddings in my time. However, some of the white trash* ones that I’ve had to attend have taken the trailer home.

Granted, part of my personal code for attending weddings has been, well, don’t. I have to be especially close to you, be in the wedding, or my wife has to make me go (and knowing my code, she doesn’t make me attend many). I get that two people are making a solemn vow before God and community to love each other until death do they part. However, they can be dreary affairs. Though some can be so bad, they are morbidly entertaining.

One such highlight came just over a decade ago when a friend of mine got married. We were friends all through high school, though his parents were racist and hated having me around. They objected to me being in the wedding, so rather than cause a fuss, I opted to simply attend. I wore a black suit and except for the groom, I was over-dressed. The best man wore a tuxedo shirt, and by that I mean a T-shirt with the picture of a tuxedo on it. That wasn’t the best part: their reception music was 80s metal power ballads.

I thought that would be the capper on bad weddings, until I was forced to go to a wedding of a friend of my wife’s. Oh. Sweet. Jesus. Admittedly, I wore my red suit, reminiscent of a zoot suit, so I knew that I would stick out. I didn’t think the fact that I wore shoes would make me the stand out. I’m certain that the church was thrilled to host that many mud-caked feet. And never had I seen so many bib-overalls gathered for one occasion. I kept fearing that they would have the “Battling Banjos” from Deliverance as the bridal march.

So obviously I thought that I had dibs on worst weddings ever (let me say it one more time: 80s metal power ballads). Until my friend called me. He’s my guide on all things white trash. He couldn’t punch in my phone number fast enough after the wedding that he was forced to go to because his wife’s brother decided to get married.

It’s always a bad sign when the wedding invitation is dated for July 30th, 2025 (unless the happy couple was announcing the date of the arranged marriage of the products of their union). It was a balmy 88 degree Indiana day, miserably humid, and thus (less than) perfect for an outdoor wedding. My friend also made the mistake of dressing up for the wedding, apparently not getting the memo about the “Get ‘Er Done” T-shirt attire. Okay, a sea of “Get ‘Er Done” T-shirts would have been funny, but only a couple people came sporting the shirts. There was no unifying voice among the men as to which T-shirt was best worn to a wedding.

The women came in two flavors. There were those who looked like they missed the hooker convention. Some of them wore dresses (dresses might be too strong a word for halter tops and mini-skirts so small that they barely covered their panties). Turns out that the brides sister really was a stripper and decided that she would make it painfully apparent by not wearing any panties under her mini-skirt. The other women my friend described at the 300 pounders. Women who never missed a buffet table, yet felt the need to wear clothing so tight that you could see the outline of their thongs. Their thongs. That image will make you doubt your faith in God.

The wedding was due to start at 4:30 pm. Sometime after that, the bride showed up. Sometime after five, the groom showed up clothes in hand, toting a keg. Up until this point, there had been nothing to drink and nothing on ice, not that it mattered since no one remembered to bring cups. So families scrambled to their cars to get their empty water bottles, cutting the tops off them to fill them with beer. Because nothing goes better on a scorching hot day than alcohol and thirsty rednecks. (There is a manic glee to my friend’s voice at this point as he’s telling this story.)

The best man showed up with a button up white shirt that had blue flames running up it. The maid of honor lost the groom’s ring (which we’re pretty sure is now in a pawn shop somewhere), and the minister had to loan them one of his for the ceremony. One of the reception cakes featured, you can’t make this stuff up, a deer head mounted in the middle. To sum up the rest of the reception:

The DJ charging to play the wedding march: $40
The DJ smoking a fatty with the stripper: $3
The DJ announcing the groom’s sister as his mother: priceless.

*If I read the rules of racial dialogue correctly, I get to use that term. I have a token white trash friend and that gives me all the credentials that I need to say anything I want about white people. It’s either that or blame white people for every thing (if I thought he was serious about dialogue, I might have engaged him).

Comment on this bit of rantus interruptus anyway you want (I don’t know where you’re reading it from) but if you want to guarantee me seeing it, do so at my message board.