I just finished the opening chapter of “Weddingapocalypse – why you should elope”. Here is a couple of paragraphs. Enjoy :
I could tell you this story is all true, but you would never believe me. I could tell you about one friend who drove from Texas to Connecticut to end up getting a haircut, another who decided he was married to video game consoles or the ashtray that stood in for a friend who was underage and couldn’t get into the titty bar. But instead, I’ll tell you about all of them in a romping good time. If you will give me a moment, I’ll tell you about the most miserable experience a man could ever have at a wedding. No, it wasn’t my wedding, but I had the misfortune of being the best man to the Weddingapocalypse. Let me set the stage:
Her name was Brittany and she was from a small East Texas farming town, where Friday’s were reserved for drinking and screwing.
She had to get the hell outta there. But she needed a nose job and a set of boobs before any of the frat daddies at State Tech would look her up.
Brittany was looking to be a trophy wife, but she had to work on the trophy first.
“This morning, little dog woke me up by wearing my swimsuit bottoms… on his head.”