I’m The Person Giving This Toast, And Things Are About To Get Weird

Hey, everyone! I’m about to speak to you at this wedding. And I think you know things are about to get weird.

How do you know, you might ask? Is it because I’m wearing a t-shirt with a bow tie? A Hawaiian shirt? Or is it the way I’ve fashioned a necklace out of a shoelace and it’s holding my beer?

Whatever the reason, you’re right.

I bet you’re excited to see what I’m going to say and how it’s going to cause such strong second-hand embarrassment that you’ll sweat profusely, nervously knock over your drink, or head to the bathroom with stress-induced diarrhea. The best part: I’m only loosely connected to the happy couple so I really shouldn’t be talking in the first place.

First off, let me tell you how I know the bride and groom. I was in a frat with the groom. Anyone surprised?

Now, here’s some useless facts about me. I’m a Pisces, I have a sister, and I collect baby teeth. My business involves numbers, and specifically caters to cult leaders and white supremacists.  But, don’t worry. I atone by donating money to Woody Allen’s children and their elite prep schools.

Fun, right?

The next part of my speech was supposed to rhyme. But I couldn’t find a partner who would trade every other line with me as I described how the groom proposed to the bride during her internal medicine residency. It would have been like a grade school election speech until I rhymed “arrhythmia” with “chlamydia.” After all, I have to tell you about the aftermath of my affair with the bride’s mother.

Who doesn’t love word play?

I also want to share one of my fondest memories of the groom–and not one of the many involving nudity or prostitutes. No, this one’s from that field trip we took during our time studying abroad in Berlin. We were so drunk that we nearly blacked out. The phrase “never forget” always makes us laugh now because we’ll never forget how drunk we were when we were touring the Dachau concentration camp.

Where do we go from here, am I right?

Maybe I’ll talk about how hot the bride is and you’ll all look at her and then look down. She’ll awkwardly notice the attention and then glare at me for the rest of my toast. Or I’ll get emotional and unexpectedly start to cry. You’d feel sympathetic if I wasn’t using so many racial slurs.

Then, suddenly, I’ll raise my glass, and eventually people will tentatively raise their glasses, too, in a weak attempt to get this event back on track. But, just as you all are starting to relax, relieved this trainwreck is over, I’ll smash my glass on the ground and yell “L’chaim.” Of course, I’m not Jewish.

In the end, there aren’t enough tiny pickles or small cheeses in the world to erase the memory of my toast. I mean, the drunk guests will be unaffected. And probably anyone who was in the bathroom. But everyone else will spend more time talking about the weirdness of my speech than the reason we all gathered together in the first place.

As for me, I’ll think I absolutely crushed my toast. In fact, I’ll be expecting you to say so when you notice me standing in line for yet another drink. You’ll feel me before you see me because I’ll be standing uncomfortably close to you and I’ll smell like junior high P.E.

In response, I’ll have lots more to tell you about my thoughts on Israel, my favorite season of America’s Next Top Model, and the year I stalked Greg Louganis.