The Secrets to a Successful and Fun Wedding

This weekend I performed my first wedding.

It was an honor and a privilege to have been asked and trusted enough to do such a thing.  In truth, things went off with barely a hitch.  The bride and groom looked great, their families were awesome to meet and get to know better, the weather was far better than predicted.  We were supposed to get a bunch of wicked storms and aside from a brief sprinkle in the morning, it was dry and we had blue skies by the early afternoon.

All told, the wedding and reception were both excellent.

As for my role in this affair, I judge my successes in life through the eyes of others.  I always have.  So while I'm very critical of what I did and did not do, the others who were there said it went off very well.  Short, sweet, and to the point. 

I cut a lot out of my little sermon.  It was hot and humid, we got a late start, and the groom was so nervous it seemed almost cruel to prolong the event.  So I cut it short, said the words and BANG!  Two people were legally married in the State of Wisconsin.

But it wasn't the wedding I wanted to perform.


First of all, there was no mention of Satan, Lord Lucifer, The Ancient Serpent Deceiver anywhere in the entire ceremony.  I couldn't mention him because the bride said her family would freak.  Why, I have no idea.  They seemed cool enough.

The groom's family were all ministers themselves and I was certain they would totally respect another man of faith, regardless of where that faith was placed.  I mean, worship is worship, right?

Second, I wasn't allowed to use a pentagram anywhere in the wedding.  That didn't stop me for hiding one someplace.  I mean, tradition is tradition, and a wedding without tradition just won't do! 

Thirdly, everybody looked great.  The bride, the groom, the bridesmaids and groomsmen.  Everybody looked good.  Even I wore clothes.  Frankly, I thought it should have been a skyclad wedding.  It was hot anyways, so why not?  A bunch of naked people during an emotionally-charged religious ceremony is always a good idea.  Always.  And if we had taken the drugs I'd suggested, even better.

But nooo!  I had to wear clothes.  Pants, too.  And not the goat leggings I had picked out.  To be fair, I looked great in my suit, but the goat leggings would have offered a certain authenticity to the whole affair.  Besides, had the ceremony been held at midnight around a bonfire, we could have done the Goat Dance around the fire while wearing our goat leggings.

If you've never seen a bunch of naked people wearing nothing but goat leggings do the Goat Dance around a bonfire at midnight, you've lead a sheltered life and I feel sorry for you. 

We never had the blood fountain set up.  A blood fountain is critical in a wedding.  It represents all the blood of your future enemies that will fertilize your wealth and prosperity as you slice, hack, and rampage your path through life together.  By washing your hands in the blood and laying your hands on each other, the couple shows their zealous devotion to each other and willingness to lay waste to all enemies that come between them.  This is also why having a naked wedding is best.  This way that pretty white dress doesn't get blood stains all over, which granted would look fucking awesome, but blood stains are hard to get out of certain materials.

To the best of my knowledge, none of us did a round or two of heavy drugs before the ceremony.  Frankly, I don't understand this choice.  Even magic brownies would have helped calm folks down.  But full-on hallucinations while making a life-changing decision are important and needed, because only when you see black and purple rats crawling on the guests can you truly understand what life is really about. 

But nooooo!  No heavy drugs.  None.  In fact, I think a few of the key people were even sober.  The horror of it all!

Skipping over the fact the bride AND groom both stood there on their own volition, and neither of them needed persuasion with firearms, knives, rope or any pointy implements, they both seemed to genuinely care about each other.  She was even conscious during the whole thing.  Horrible, horrible.

They even omitted the dozen little persons in robes carrying torches to open the ceremony.  What's a wedding without torches?  

Perhaps the most glaring deletion from the whole stripped-down affair was the lack of a goat sacrifice.  In fact, that was what people first asked about.

"Where's the goat sacrifice?"

"Lucifer will never bless with wedding now!"

"That alter sure looks bare without the entrails decorating it!"

And all I could do was shrug my shoulders and say, "I know, I know...let's just get through this, okay?"

The important thing to keep in mind about this weekend is how the bride and groom were happy to make due with what they had instead of allowing me to give them the full-on ceremony such a commitment deserves.  Their wonderfully normal families were happy, too.

And talk about normal!  Nobody pulled a single gun during the entire thing.  Nobody showed up drunk, covered in blood or smelling of feces.  In fact, they looked happy to be there.  Happy!  A hot, muggy August day, sober and wearing clothes.  And they were happy!

I'm going to put this horrid affair behind me and prepare for the next one coming up.  I have already informed the next bride that we fully expect the cops to arrive several times during this event and to have a lawyer on retainer.  I'm not taking any more chances with these kinds of things.

An Honor and a Pleasure

In recent weeks I've been given a number of unpublished works to beta read by friends.  A few short stories and a couple of novels. 

For those unfamiliar with the term, Beta Reading is when you read and edit something for a writer and offer your opinions on the craft of their work.  It takes time to do it right.  You can't just read it, send them an e-mail and say, "yeah, that was great.  Send it to somebody." 

It takes time to properly beta read something.  It takes thought and effort.  I've been fortunate enough to have had a few friends do this for me over the years.  One is sort of my lucky charm because everything I've gotten accepted has been beta read by her at some point.  I consider her to be a Station of the Cross. 

I've come to realize that having somebody trust you enough to allow you to not only read their work before it's been submitted, but also solicit opinions on that work, is really an honor.  It means they respect you enough to actually care what you think. 

So in recent weeks I've been beta reading novels.  I just finished one and last night I started another.  It's an exciting feeling because I get to see how the process works for others.  Plus, it has made me think more about my own work and how I would like to approach it. 

In other news, I'm totally over-worked between my paying job, chores, writing and editing.  I need a TedSpawn.  And since volunteer hosts have not come forward as I had expected, I'm going to opt for the conscription plan.  Hosts will be drafted into service to the Van. 

The aliens that come to visit me regularly have already said it was a bad idea.  But they also added that they'd allow me to borrow their spaceship and equipment to make it happen out of their own morbid curiosity.  One even said he'd hold my beer while I worked the controls. 

You just can't buy friendship like that. 

Some of you expecting mothers might be worried that your baby is in fact a TedSpawn.  This is entirely possible so let me answer some of your questions. 


How do I know if I'm carrying my baby or a TedSpawn? 

Typically, hosting a TedSpawn brings nightmares and unusual cravings at night.  Do you crave raw beef? 

Also, if the baby inside is kicking, does watching a horror movie calm it down?  If so, you might be carrying a TedSpawn. 


If I'm carrying a TedSpawn, does that mean you'll cover my medical bills? 

Why go to a hospital?  They'll just chew their way out in 7-9 months anyways.  It's not like I'd risk some doctor botching things up for me again. 


If any of you expecting mothers have any other questions, feel free to post them in the comments and I'll answer them as I get time. 

Get a Job, You Lazy *********!

All day long I hear people bitch and complain about how they need money or their job doesn't give them enough hours or how they hate coming home covered in dirt.  Wah, wah, wah! 

Some people even claim to not be able to find a job. 


Well, rest assured, your Uncle Ted has come to the rescue.  I know a place that is hiring, actually paying people money, and most importantly they are looking for full-time AND part-time people.

Click here and get a job you lazy bum! 

Learning to Be a Human 101

Some people just need to be killed. 

Seriously, killing isn't always a bad thing.  In fact, I'm willing to believe that everybody has wanted to kill somebody at least once in their lives.  I know I have. 

I got into some hot water once in a college history class.  I had to give a presentation about lynchings and I made the case for how lynchings really weren't all that bad.  I said, "just because somebody was lynched, it didn't mean they were wrongfully accused or didn't have it coming.  Some people needed to by lynched."  My professor got angry and tried to make it about race.  I corrected him and reminded him that most of the people lynched were white.  It's not about race, it's about somebody that just can't seem to stop fucking up, and it's time to get rid of them.  

Here's the thing--if you think about all the people you've wanted to kill, and all of that anger and rage, how do you feel about killing them now?  I'm willing to wager that in 99.99999% of those cases, you are glad you didn't do it because upon cooling off you realized it wasn't the best way to handle those situations. 

But what about those .0000001%? 

Those shitheads who, for some reason, really need to be killed.  Let's face it, some folks need killin'. 

In some rural areas today, you can kill somebody and be arrested, go in front of a judge and simply say, "Your Honor, he needed killin'."  And then you plead your case as to why.  More often than not, you'll be let go with a warning or some token conviction for loitering or jay-walking. 

Sadly not every part of America is as enlightened and if you kill somebody you will be convicted as if the idiot you killed was really a person.  And we all know that some of these assholes aren't really people, just meat bags waiting to be unplugged from the trough. 

I always get a laugh when I read about somebody who was, "murdered in cold blood" as if that matters.  To me, that just means it was efficient and effective.  What better way to get rid of somebody than when they're sitting on the toilet?  We really do have a lot of stupid social rules about when and where you can kill somebody.  Killing is killing--why be a pansy about it? 

I used to think the biggest reason I didn't go on a killing spree was because I just didn't feel I was smart enough to avoid getting caught.  But then one day, a friend of mine once said as an offhanded remark, "Yeah, but that asshole probably has somebody in this world who cares about them and prays they learn to turn their life around so they'll stop being an asshole." 

That didn't really make me pause much then, but it does now, and it that makes me uncomfortable.  Is this empathy I'm feeling?  I hope not, it feels icky. 

But it also makes me wonder a bit.  Killing is permanent.  It sticks.  You cannot unkill somebody.  Once that head leaves the body, it is all over, and no doctor can sew it back on.  Or at least sew it on so it works again.  I've heard stories about these Russian scientists, but those are only rumors, so I won't get my hopes up.

So yeah, killing is for keeps.  Knowing this, I wonder about all the people I have wanted to kill, but just couldn't because of those pesky laws.  A detective might not be smart, but the system they work for is, and you can never beat a system.   In a way, it's a good thing we have that sort of mechanism in place in our culture, because it keeps people from making permanent solutions to temporary problems.   We should spend tax dollars on that system so fewer folks make those choices and more people choose something like, I don't know, not killing.  Not killing is a good thing. 

Not killing can be the right choice. 

Wow, did I just learn a lesson about life?  Worse, is this horrible, disgusting feeling I have about the people I used to hate empathy?  Is there a drug I can take to get rid of it? 


It feels....bad.  

Haunted Hotel Rooms in Wisconsin

Over the years I have found it to be fairly common to have hotel rooms haunted with various entities, hostile and mischievous.  Stephen King's 1409 was based on a real hotel room in Chicago and The Shinning comes to mind as well.  I've been to that hotel in Colorado and it's quite nice. 

But I've been hearing rumors and stories about a motel room in Janesville, Wisconsin that have really gotten my interest.  First, because it's close to where I live and second, I actually know some folks who have been in there. 

I'm told the Holiday Inn Express in Janesville might have a problem.  Room 228, to be specific. 

I first heard of this a few months back when a friend of mine had family stay in town for a wedding.  Her aunt was so terrified she had to check out. 

"My Aunt Jo was in town for our wedding in March and they stayed in that room for two nights.  On the first night, she said she went into this weird trance and drew a horrible picture of a demon's head.  It was awful!  But my aunt blamed it on watching a scary movie at my mom's house with her nephews.  Those two little bastards do that sort of shit sometimes.  But she said after she drew the picture she took a snap of it with her phone and sent it to my uncle, who couldn't come because he was on-call at the fire department.  

When she sent the picture, the note she typed was a bunch of gibberish.  

The day after was my wedding.  During the reception she was really wild.  Wilder than normal.  She kicked off her shoes, did shots with the guys, and slow-danced a bunch with one of my husband's family.  

She never told us what happened that night but she was visibly shaken and said she had to check out of that room.  She even went home early and still won't talk about it."  

The next story I've been told comes from a co-worker who used that room for one of her hook-ups with a traveling tack salesman.  She didn't want to get into details because she thought I was prying into her incredibly active sex life, but after a while, she told me about her experiences in that room. 

"Well, first, we were a little drunk when we got there.  And we were just talking when I got a call from my mom about something stupid.  While I was talking to her, he doodled on a pad of paper.  When I got off my call, he had drawn the face of a hideous demon, and had a weird look on his own face."  

She got quiet and so I knew she didn't want to go into the sordid details of what happened next.  And frankly, I didn't want to hear it. 

"So you guys did whatever...and then what happened?" 

"Well," she said.  "It was weird.  Different.  And then he laughed." 

"He laughed?" 

"Yeah, like he was just happy to having fun but not so much with me." 

"What happened next?" 

"Well, I left.  And a week later he asked me if I felt anything strange that night.  I didn't know what he was talking about but because that night was so weird, I hadn't texted him or anything.  He said he didn't remember much after I got the phone call from my mother but he was in trouble with his wife because he apparently took a picture with his phone of the demon he drew and sent it to her with some crazy text message.  And now he says there's a ghost or something in his house that's knocking stuff off shelves and making noises at night."  

I asked for more details but she didn't want to talk about it.  I think she just wanted to forget that guy. 

Two weeks ago, I heard another story.  A traveling salesman for a car audio company came through.  He stayed there and once again, drew a picture of a demon and sent it to somebody with a message that was gibberish.  He said he didn't hook up with anybody, but he said the room was super cold at night and he couldn't sleep because the bed kept shaking. 

The worst part of it all is how I think it came home with me.  Stuff keeps getting moved, tools disappear, food spoils instantly, and I just can't seem to sleep very well.  My wife is going nuts.  She's screaming at me about all kinds of stuff I didn't do, like move her make-up or wake her up at night.  It's crazy!  I might have to get a priest in here to get it out.  

I have no idea what's going on in room 228 in that Janesville hotel, but I know I'm damned curious.  If anybody else has experiences, let me know! 

Sacred Cows

I've just finished watching the BBC 4 movie made about the controversy stirred up by the release of Monty Python's film Life of Brian. Frankly, the move was hilarious, and I found it almost as funny as Life of Brian.

In the 2011 BBC 4 film Holy Flying Circus, John Cleese goes on a rant about how it's okay to be offensive.  It's rather brilliant.

It's because of this film I feel the need to be offensive.

And before I begin, I have to say, it's not easy to be offensive for the sake of offending people.  Really.  You should try it sometime.  Just say to yourself, "Today I am going to offend people."  Simply trying to offend doesn't even touch the surface.

I like offending people.  I really do.  And if I do this properly today, you'll be offended.  I want to offend you, dear reader.  While I sincerely appreciate you taking time out of your busy surfing of the web for recipes and midget porn to come read my drivel and gibberish, I am going to offend you nonetheless because, after all that's what you come here for.  Right?  I called this blog Ted's Creepy Van.  What the fuck else do you expect out of me? 

Do you have any idea how hard it is to write a blog about creepy things and not self-incriminate?  I can't plead the Fifth Amendment and still write about grabbing random assholes off the street and cutting their bits and pieces off while they scream for mercy.  When a body or piece shows up, and they always do, the police will use everything in this blog as evidence against me.

What is worse, I have to write about nondescript assholes.  I can't talk about the piece of shit down the street who looks at me funny, or the woman who is such a bitch to me I dream about pulling her finger nails out, or the person I worked with who lied to get me fired.  Nope!

In fact, I have to be careful about discussing women and violence together because it puts me on a series of lists.  I work with women who are already terrified of me as it is and discussing violence against women seems to set folks off.  Not that I mind, but the FBI tends to be narrow-minded and devoid of humor.  If the feds came to my workplace to arrest me, or even question me, most of the women in the building would just nod their heads. 

"Uh-huh, dat fat guy be crazy!" 



Frankly, the entire topic of violence against women as a comedic trope is a vast virgin territory waiting to be explored but I'm not going to do it because I love not being in jail.  I love not being in jail so much, I often go outside and breath while saying to myself, "free air is the best air!"  Once you start blogging about how hilarious it is to carve up people and have puppet shows with their bits all kinds of law enforcement agencies take notice.

And it takes serious balls to be offensive.  Or the complete disregard of how others feel to a psychotic extreme.  I've made rape jokes and thoroughly pissed off friends who were rape survivors.  Even if you joked about raping a clown or a mime, somebody will point out that clowns are just people wearing make-up and how it's not funny.  I'm pretty sure mimes are people, too. Despite those faces they make as they are ravaged, you can't really joke about raping clowns and mimes, because eventually the make-up is washed off by the tears. 

But no, offensive content is an art unto itself.  And these days I could blog about how much I hate this god or deity and nobody could care.  It's mundane and boring.  Sure, I could really go overboard and piss off the Muslim community just so they could issue a death sentence or whatever they call it, but there's no money in that.  They decide to kill me, then they realize I live in Butt-Fuck Egypt, and after realizing Egypt doesn't have a town called Butt-Fuck and I'm really in rural Wisconsin they will give up.  Some will.  The crazy ones will come after me and kill me at some point because I mocked a prophet or a god or whatever.

Upon my death at the hands of extremist Muslims for offending them I will leave behind nothing but debt and a few poorly written blog posts that will never make a dime.  Rather pointless, really.

Being offensive and making money at it isn't so easily done.  Howard Stern offends but he gets paid.  John Cleese offended people and he got paid, too.  The good offenders of sensibilities get paid.  But they were all pioneers of their area of offense.

Perhaps I could be a pioneer of cannibal humor?  Eating people.  Yum!

But human livers are so full of Vitamin A that a few bites would be lethal.  And honestly, I wouldn't want to eat anything that's been alive for 18 years or more, so that leaves eating children.  Tender, soft and succulent children.  Jonathan Swift got away with it as satire.  I doubt I could write about eating children these days without having serious problems.  Cops, my friends at the FBI, parents.  I know several people who just had babies and if I start writing and posting recipes for Human Veal they'd never talk to me again.  A few of the fathers might want to kick my ass.

So, dear reader, I must conclude this post with the sincere wish that you were at least moderately offended by something today.  Being offended is really a wonderful experience.  It lets us know we have some morals left and the over-stimulation by the media hasn't left us hollow.  Plus, being offended makes us think, and question just what we believe in on a personal level.

Next week, I'll blog about how easy it is to swindle the Amish.   
 

Conversations with My Car

"I need you to run," I said.  "I can't keep bumming rides from people." 

My car yawned and continued to ignore me.  It hadn't said much in a while. 

"Look," I said.  "Just stop pissing power steering fluid all over the place, alright?"  Two weeks of this shit.  I thought it was the pump so I changed it.  Of course, not having the tools didn't help, so with the aid of some co-workers we were able to make it happen.  That should have fixed the problem. 

Nope. 

Turned it on and power steering fluid was everywhere again.  The serpentine belt got soaked and slipped off the tension pulley.  Again. 

So today, I tried a new tactic.  One person got on the ground while I turned the wheels to see if fluid was squirting from the bottom.  This, I thought, seemed like the logical solution.  This way I could find out if it was the pressure hose or the rack.  I even had some budget solutions for the hose-option. 

Nope. 

The belt came off and for the life of my friend and I, we couldn't put it back on.  It was as if the car simply didn't want us to put the belt back on.  My 95 Ford Taurus was being a problem child and throwing a fit. 

"Come on," I implored.  "Just let me get this belt back on you and we'll get you all fixed up.  Ok?" 

Still silence.  And then I had an idea. 

"Well," I sighed.  "That's fine.  I need to get some writing done anyways.  I'm working on a story about a car." 

"Oh?"  Deep down I smiled. 

"Yeah," I said.  "It's the story about a car that has a heroic heart and bonds with a little boy who with cancer.  The boy's parents are flying him to a special hospital when they crash.  Only the boy survives and the car is trying to get him to his treatments before he gets too sick for them to work." 

"What kind of car?" 

"I was going to go with a Taurus just because of the relationship you and I have." 

"That makes sense." 

"Not really," I said.  "Nobody really likes Tauruses.  I mean, we all drive one, but that's just because it's what we can afford.  Tauruses aren't flashy and you're not the SHO model." 

Silence.

And then, softly, "I've been reliable."

"Yes," I said.  "You have.  And aged well.  Almost 20 years old and still on the road."

"So why not make the car a Taurus?"

"So why won't you let me put this fucking belt on you?"

Silence again.  After a few minutes I went back inside my apartment to write.

Three hours later my horn toots.  I went back outside to see what it wanted.

"What's up?"

"You never take me anywhere."

I nodded my head in understanding.  I want to go places, too.  "Gas ain't free, my friend."

"Take me someplace other than work."

"Once I get paid, I'll certainly do that.  Maybe you, Dougie and I will go on a road trip together."

"You're lying to me.  I can tell."

"Yes," I said.  "I'm broke and can't afford to take you anywhere.  Plus, if you don't start working soon, I'm going to have to get rid of you."

More silence.

"Look," I said.  "While I love these little conversations of ours, I'm getting eaten alive by mosquitoes out here, so I'm going back inside."

"Why don't you ever have women in your car?"

"Well," sputtered.  "That's a good question--"

"---And when are you going to replace me with a van?"

Shit.

"Look," I said while slapping at the dozens of mosquitoes that buzzed around me.  "I don't plan on replacing you with a van and one day I'm sure a woman will ride in your passenger seat."

"You can't afford to replace me, can you?"

It had me.  It totally had me.  There was nothing I could do.

"Would you please just run?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"What do you want?"

"I told you."

And with that, silence for the rest of the night.

I can't say I have an end to this.  My car refuses to work.  There really isn't much more to say.  It's not that old but showing what age it does have.  I'm sure after a while I can figure out the problem and get it all put back together.  But until then, I'm bumming rides, and this issue is taking up way too much time.