Just when I’m pretty sure I’m not able to be amazed any more by stupid redneck tricks, my friend Dean sent me this story:
I’m not even sure where to begin … First, this story’s about a week old, so I hope your honeymoon — likely to Redneck Vegas (that’s Gatlinburg, Tenn., for you home-gamers) — went swimmingly and you enjoyed your visit to Dollywood.
Alrighty, now that all celebratory kudos are out of the way, on we go …
Just after 11 p.m. every night, Barry would stop at the station on his way home from work. For two months they flirted. Then one night, Barry came back to the station, and at pump 14 he asked Tammy on their first date.
“I knew there was something special about him that day, the first day I seen him,” she said.
… Ooooh! The anticipation! Flirted for TWO MONTHS?! Like how? “Hey, sweet thang, I do like that smock you’re wearing” and “You smell like a chicken processing plant”? Or, “How ’bout you, me, a sixer of Keystone and my El Camino go down to the levee”?
About 25 people attended the 15-minute ceremony. The bride carried a bouquet made from a gas nozzle. She wore baby blue jeans, a white shirt and white sandals. The groom wore blue jeans and a plaid shirt. Following the ceremony, the Pattersons celebrated at a neighbor’s cook-out.
A bouquet … made … from a gas nozzle.
Yes, that noise was my head hitting my desk.
You know, really, all I can think of at this point is, “Thank you Baby Jesus for making this happen in South Carolina and not West Virginia.” I’m truly at a loss. You want to get married at a place that, at least, for me, feels like nose rape every time I pull a car up to a gas pump. I don’t get it. Sure, I get that every couple has their special places — the place you met, the place you decided to be a couple, the place you had your first date, etc. (Except for me — true story: B and I have never really been on an actual date. Not in the “getting to know you over expensive food and awkward conversation” sense. We’re sickly proud of that fact.)
If I ever get married again, and I’m definitely not in any hurry, I think I’ll get married at Three Mile Island in Pennsylvania. After all, it was the site of one fantastic disaster. May as well make another one happen there.
(Cue the rimshot!)
Can anybody top this … Or is it taking gold in the Redneck Olympics?