DOWN WITH PANTS!

First of all, I want to thank the guys over at Analog Medium for nominating me for Most Humorous Blog in the BoB Awards. It is our first nomination for any of these awards and I am very flattered. So let's bring on the funny with more of the Best of DWP! 2005 - Part Deux. May through July.

In May I got married. It was a big deal. Both Dave at Blogography and Ted at Narnarnarnar helped me out while I was gone on my honeymoon. Ted attended our wedding and wrote a very accurate recap of the weekend....

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Narnarnarnar and Hips-O-Doom had been looking forward to the nuptials of DWP! and Death? for quite some time. While Hips-O-Doom was looking forward to her first stint as a bridesmaid, Narnarnarnar had other plans. He was going to wear something so gorgeous to the reception that it would cause a mind-bending sensation that curved the fabric of space-time and echoed down through the ages. A nuclear holocaust of fashion, if you will.

In preparation for this, he started shopping for his getup weeks in advance. The bottom was a no-brainer: a jewel encrusted Utilikilt with a seven foot tall fan of peacock feathers extending from the backside, making it look like a shredded, Paul Bunyan-scale CD was exploding from his butt. The top was more of a problem. Narnarnarnar did not want to force it, so he wandered the department stores and thrift stores, waiting for it all to click.

Deep in the back of American Eagle, he found it. It was given to him by a withered old Chinese man who looked a little like Pat Morita, and little like the guy from the beginning of Gremlins. He opened a black onyx steamer trunk covered with deep claw marks, and supernatural yellow light spilled out. There it was. A fiber optic mesh shirt.

Narnarnarnar and Hips-O-Doom arrived in Seattle without incident, save for the stares, strip searches and questions regarding dubious patriotism that Narnarnarnar had to undergo when airport security saw what he was going to wear to Love-A-Palooza 2005.

"Fascists," Narnarnarnar grumbled as they exited the airport and merged onto I-5.

Hips-O-Doom had not yet seen the getup, but Narnarnarnar was eager to model it for her in the hotel room. He came twirling out of the bathroom, the peacock feathers slashing the wallpaper and the fiber optics unambiguously revealing his total lack of torso muscles.

"Breathtaking, isn't it?" he said. Moisture started streaming from her eyes. "Are those tears of joy or tears of jealousy?" he asked with a sneer.

"I think my eyes are bleeding," Hips-O-Doom responded.

At the gates of Love-A-Palooza 2005, Narnarnarnar was met by six very deadly looking bridesmaids dressed in dark, fluid red. They were holding cricket bats, a large spool of duct tape, and a dozen Sharpie markers. He turned to Hips-O-Doom for an explanation, but she had already silently left his side and joined the other six.

Minutes later, he was wrapped in a silver cocoon of duct tape, with a small gap left for his eyes. An extremely convincing image of a tuxedo was drawn over it like some sort of optical illusion. He was then wrestled into a seat next to three other similar looking cocoons. His peacock feathers had been plucked bald and placed in the hair of the bridesmaids: war trophies.

"Stop wriggling," the Maid of Honor growled at him and raised the cricket bat menacingly. He stopped.

When Death? finally made her entrance, a hush fell over the guests and Narnarnarnar's heart sank. It was clear he would never echo down through the ages. Instead he was doomed to forever play Hector to Death?'s Achilles. He leaned back in his chair and waited for the dancing to begin. He would waggle his heartbreak away long into the night.

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Still thinking about the wedding in June, I made an interesting discovery on our marriage license...

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Well, if it isn't my arch-nemesis Down With Pants! and
his new wife Death? to whom I'm fairly indifferent...

Holy Crap! I was just looking at our marriage license and noticed something very peculiar. The signature on the line for the Snohomish County Auditor is that of Bob Terwilliger, AKA Sideshow Bob. How cool is that? That Bob sure is prolific. He has tried to kill Selma, framed Krusty, been elected mayor of Springfield, tried to kill Bart numerous times and has landed on his feet once again as the Snohomish County Auditor. Good for you Bob and thank you for making our marriage official! Now about all of those new Bart killing policies...

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And in July I started to write letters to people who pissed me off, including this one to my favorite neighbor...

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Dear Skank That Lives Downstairs:

Shut the fuck up! We have lived above you for a month and a half now and have been awakened by your drunk ass and whatever nasty fucking guy you bring home at least five times and have had to listen to you ranting and raving on the phone countless more times. I'm sick and tired of all the drama.

3:30 in the morning is not an acceptable time to yell at the top of your lungs at that foul boyfriend of yours. I don't need to hear you yell "fuck" at him one hundred times in two minutes. I don't need to hear you drunkenly accuse him of every crazy fucking thing under the sun. And when you have your angry makeup sex, for god's sake close your window! The neighborhood does not need to hear the spanking, the screeching and most of all, the finishing groan by that douche bag that is laying on top of you. If I find that I am sterile in the future, I will be suing your ass. Millions and millions of my boys may have lost the will to live and you are to blame.

If you start screaming at the top of your lungs that late again I will have to assume that you and that douche bag are fighting and I will be forced to call the cops. Maybe the police stopping by because of a report of suspected domestic violence will get your skank ass to shut the fuck up.

Peace and love, you dirty drunken whore,