Sunday marked another joyous occasion, as I attended one of the few, the very few, weddings that I firmly stand behind.

A tad hungover, I was happy to snuggle in bed with my retarded little girl, Dingbat, on Sunday morning.

The Girl may be sleeping in the other bedroom, until she moves into her new apartment Friday, but this photo-op was apparently too yummy-gooey-sweet to pass up.

The typical Sunday morning starts with this image.

And then they start biting my balls.

I watched some football and wallowed in my recent depression all day, which was pretty damn fun, I must say. Wait, no it wasn't...

Some friends stopped by on the way to the wedding, and my buddy's girlfriend wanted to snap some shots whilst I prepared.

Depression aside, I'm still a complete whore for the camera, so I let her.

Me, brushing my teeth. THAT, is some exciting shit. Seriously, I am a complete whore.

Bear with me, people, I haven't gotten the wedding shots back yet.

Now, I'm just annoyed.

Plopp buddy, that's what I think of Sim JuddHole. Bitch.

My buddy, Mikey, is damn lucky he's my favoritest defenseman ever, because I was not in the mood for any damn, fucking, shit-piss, happy occasion or any of that shit.

Caught in a rare moment of affection for my sweet, baby, retarded, short-bus, dumb-as-a-fucking-box-of-hair kid.

Because of the unimaginably crazy shit my life has been through lately, I choose to hide my emotions behind a fa�ade of flirtatiousness.

I am a damn, sexxeeehhh, bitch.

Even when I'd rather rub fistfuls of powdered glass into my ears, I'm still up for a weddin'.

More pics to follow of the nuptials and such.

---

The wedding was in an outrageously elaborate church, followed by the reception at the outrageously elaborate Hotel. For those that know Denver, the Trinity Methodist Church, and the Brown Palace Hotel across the street (where the Beatles stayed!) both smack dab in the middle of downtown.

My natural JuniorHighish impulse, when placed in a situation demanding great class and dignity, is to become a complete childish ass. The fact that I am not happy with the world lately only compounds this�

And makes for some funny shit.

We got there early and were in, like, the second fucking pew, in a Church filled with a couple hundred. Clinging to the drunk that I latched onto over a week ago, I was suckling the whiskey flask from my sporran (pouch thingy with my kilt), like a freakin' newborn calf. Though this drew condemning looks from the Bride's family and� well� everybody, it didn't make it any less enjoyable. I figured, hey, it ain't like I can get kicked out, can I?

God told me later, that I'm stuck in Purgatory for another 12 years, one for every drink from the flask.

Wait'll he reads the "Prayer Request Cards" that we filled out while waiting.

I don't remember what we wrote, but God is sure to get a chuckle out of "Food for all the babies� and something� please� something for this interminable itching� I mean, I can't even sit down anymore!"

Heh. Yeah, I'm burnin' for that one.

The service was apparently pretty religious in nature and, being slightly tipped, the huge fuckin' Church, the somber priest, and all the Holy shit didn't really tip me off to that fact. It was the fucking PRAYING. God Damn. Well, that's not how it really went, it was more like, "Praise, and thanks, and love, and honor� blah-diddy-blah-fuckin-blah-blah-blah."

I don't normally show much respect for organized religion, but I'll pretend for the benefit of my friend's happy occasion. I bowed my head.

I thought I was doing so well by bowing my head when we were supposed to, singing when we were supposed to, missing the end of the fucking Bronco game� okay, that one burned me up, but, Lelie made an incredible catch right before I went in to the Church, to put the Broncos up, so I figured I could give God some leeway as long as He let my team win.

Then, I found out that I was snoring during one of the prayers. I'd bowed my head, I'd shown penitence in the eyes of God, and all that shit.

Then, I'd fallen asleep.

Nobody really noticed except the hockey team, though, and that was only because they were busy sticking wedding programs up my kilt.

Seven and a half hours later (actually, more like 35 minutes, but fuck, it felt longer), we walked across the street to the Brown Palace. I admit, I was picturing something to do with toilets and crapping and such, but this place was Swaaaaaaannnnnnnggggggg-kkkkeeeeeeeee.

I don't even mean the fancy chandeliers (that I only whacked with my head once) or the wait staff ("Crab Puff? They're terrific, and you have great legs� Have another Fat Tire."), but just the overall atmosphere. I had the sudden urge to jump up onto a table and ruin the Secret of the Kilt for the night. Shit, now that I think about it, all the chicks at table 7 were dying to know. Is it wrong that I showed them in front of their husbands?

The whiskey, then beer, then wine, then Red wine, then champagne, stirred something emotional inside of me, and I began leaking like an old raft, when the Father of the Bride did his little speech. It was fucking beautiful.

I got seriously emotional watching the Bride and Groom too, doing their dance out on the floor. My buddy Mikey isn't ever very emotional, and to see him so happy, to see two people so in love, it really hit me.

Trust me, it's never cool when all your hockey buds see you sobbing in your kilt. Thankfully, they know what's going on in my life right now, and they were already told by Hotel management that they weren't allowed to "pants" me at the reception (would it be "kilts" me?). I was held tenderly by some of their wives while I wept openly. Later, I would rebut any comments about my "pussinality" with comments about their wives cleavage. I'm such a fucker about that kind of stuff but, to be fair, all of their wives have very nice breasts, even the 52-year old.

The food was beyond awesome, and well into moan-out-loud good, but the alcohol kept flowing very freely.

*getting handed yet another beer*

"Dude, I was just going to go piss, I'm not empty."

*shrugging*

"Sorry sir, but by the rate that you were absorbing Fat Tire's earlier, you are overdue by� 3 minutes."

"No SHIT!?! A'right, gimme another in� 2 minutes."

This also led to the "hockey" tables being the most photographed, most glared at, most visited, and most enjoyed 2 out of 20 tables all night.

Whether it was Gonzo and his newlywed, tongue-fighting at the table (they are SO happy), or El Capitan's prim, proper, wife, screaming at me about how much sex per week I should have been having with the Girl (after being told we broke up, she forgot about 8 minutes later), or the Gypsy, another defenseman, telling one of the bridesmaids that he'd had his cock bronzed in Scotland (while she held the still-turned-on microphone in her hands), we were definitely popular.

Oh yes, the ladies had their fair share of attempted peekings, and ponderings, about what was under the kilt.

I was feeling quite sexy and loved when the Mother of the Bride came up and asked who in the hell I was.

"I'm Judd," I told her, "Mikey's one of my Ho's."

The fact that our hockey team's name is, Judd's Hoes, didn't seem to register on her.

"Judd� (my real last name)� I know you."

"Fuck� I mean, no you don't, nice to meet you." *curtsy*

"So, what's under the kilt?"

"Nonna yuir geddam buisiness, laaahhhsss!"

"Oh, you're right, there's nothing going on under there anyway�"

(To hockey buddy, Dozer) "Am I wrong, or did the MOTB, just disrespect my package?"

"She's a ball-buster, dude. You better show 'er what's up."

So, I did.

She was mildly offended.

Then she told me that she'd leave the "Colonel" for me.

I told her that, although she had it goin' on, for a 56-year old, the "Colonel" just bought my alcohol and bitchin-ass food for the evening, I could hardly steal his wife.

It was then I noticed that, of the toasts being given, there were only select few family members giving them.

"Fuck it, I'm goin' up there."

Much to the horror of 18 tables, and the cheers of the 2 that mattered to me, I grabbed the microphone and addressed the 200-some-odd strangers.

I was amazingly lucid and sober-sounding, and it went something like this:

"We all know that Mikey isn't the most emotional guy. Hell, I've played hockey with his Hot-Dog little brother (best man) and him for 6 years.

I'll never forget when I first fell in love with Mikey (crowd "aaaahhhss").

We were in a playoff game, a close one, and a shot bounced around in my pads to where I didn't know where it was. The closest opponent didn't either, so he began whacking at my midsection like Paul-freakin-Bunyan on a mighty oak (chopping gestures). Since all I can see is his stick and his skates, I'm quite surprised when I hear a couple strong strides ("whoosh, whoosh"), hear a 'crunch,' and see my opponent's skates disappear from my limited range of vision.

I looked up to see Mikey standing, alone, in my crease, and our opponent laying across the rink against the boards. He shouted, "Hey what the�(I edited myself for the toast, thank you)" and the ref said, "Hey, what the�" and Mikey simply said, very matter-of-factly, "Don't touch my goalie."

He's been that way ever since, and I know that they way he loves me, so matter-of-factly, is similar to how he loves (bride), very solidly, very matter-of-factly, and extremely unwavering.

*crowd-aaaahhhss-and-cheers*

And Bride, I knew you were good enough to hang with us when you first started coming to the games. I gave you so much shit, and even pinched your butt once in front of Mikey, just to see if you were cool enough to hang with the boys. Even though you smacked me, and I liked it a little, you were laughing it up with the team, and I knew you were one of us.

I love you guys."

*tears-with-raised-champage-glass*

200 people I didn't even know stood up and cheered.

I can't believe I got that kind of response with something I totally pulled out of my ass.

---

Part of my merriment during the toast was the vibrating going on repeatedly above my fellas. I'd turned the ringer off on my phone and hadn't noticed it ringing all fucking night.

7 voicemails to tell me that my alpha-fucking-bitch, Asshead, had torn to shit my sweet-lovable-gotarded, Dingbat.

The Girl took her to the 24-hour vet up the road and, $426 later, she was stitched up and ready to resume a life of subservience to Asshead.

I swear to God, I may never have kids just because of the way it felt having to pick her up, all groggy with tubing sticking out of her neck ("drainage" for the wound� yechh.), but also to come home to the ever-lovin' bitch that chewed her up. How do you give love to such a mean-spirited creature, even when she's licking your hand penitently?

Christ, a liter bottle of Merlot is gone now, and I'm going to bed. Asshead will sleep in the garage tonight, and Dingbat will join either the Girl or me in our respective beds. I will face the prospect of another day when it's actually another day.

Wish me luck.