A Message from the Publisher: On Mockery

By Buford Gideon Ambrose, Publisher Emeritus

Well, here I am at last, finally being given the chance to vent my anger and frustration with the world into tangible, solid evidence that it is time, in fact, for a change. Last Saturday I attended a Holy day, one which was filled with merriment, love, passion, glee, and drunkenness. I am speaking, of course, about the wedding of a friend of mine (she’s older so don’t think I hang out with lowly 18/19 year old’s who have shotgun weddings). The wedding itself went flawlessly, the flowers looked extravagant, and the bride and groom evoked strong emanations of beauty. However as I was taken over by tears of joy streaming down my face, as I usually become at weddings, I could not help but notice that this particular ceremony did not give out tissues for which to wipe off the medals of emotion I proudly wore that day. Surely they do not expect us to remember our own tissues, for it would be absurd to have a bulky pocket full of soft cloth thereby making you look bloated and flabby. Besides being tissueless, the wedding was an overall success, except for the undeniable fact that it was held in Camden, New Jersey. For those of you not familiar with Camden, it was rated the No. 1 most dangerous city in America, three years in a row!!! For a second I was taken away from my dangerous surrounding by being engulfed in the sweet sounds of “Ave Maria” and the exchange of vows between the bride and groom. However I was quickly returned to reality once I had heard the whizzing police car, ambulance, and fire trucks. Also, we became slightly lost trying to find the reception. Weeee!!! During our adventure through the hallowed streets of Camden, we witnessed four cars piled on a lawn, five men drinking and throwing cans at us, and a foul smelling hobo asking for “Dollas o else.” Thankfully we were able to tailgate the limos from the wedding, although the driver had a few words to say to me about the illegality of tailgating!!!

The reception itself was like a fantastic night of sex, it started out great, but ended horribly, and way to soon. I entered the wine cellar, and marveled at the exquisite wine selection and hor’douerves! I have nothing bad to say concerning this part. The next part deeply troubled me. As I made my way to the reception room, I asked a fellow where to place the presents for the happy couple. He motioned my to a table, on which I placed my 3 ft. high brightly colored Spider-Man bag. After noticing several people walk by and look in disgust, I had realized that my hard work and thought going into such a magnificent present was being mocked, and even shunned. But that was not going to get me down; the food would do an excellent job.

My friend who was getting married, is a vegetarian. Therefore, she had made the extremely wise decision to offer only vegetarian meals to her guests. I made the executive decision to go for the portabella puntini, which, in retrospect, was the most horrible decision I would have ever made in my entire life, trumping even that of the time I attempted to make my little brother the first Italian in space by tying 85 balloons to his roughly 20 pound frame. There is no documented history of an expedition as horrific as the one which the portabella puntini took inside my intestinal tract. Not even the chocolate fountain, replete with bananas and cakes, could quell my stomach. After the food, it was time to dance, and that would be an adventure in itself.

Apparently, there is a set number of songs that must be played at EVERY SINGLE PARTY/RECEPTION/WEDDING/BAR MITZVAH/OCCASION. These include such classics as “We are Family, Brick House, Shout, The Twist, and every Motown song imaginable. Some of my readers are unaware of my dancing style, but those who know me realize that I require a very prompt and quick beat to fully demonstrate my rhythmic prowess. Dancing to, “It’s Raining Men,” did not fulfill this requirement. After asking the Live Band/DJ if he had any Cascada or DJ Assault, he just laughed at me and sent me on my way. This would not be our last encounter