THE WEDDING CRUSHER

by Chris Joseph

Since the wedding of Jenna Bush was shrouded in privacy, we can only wonder what pearls of wisdom Daddy W. might have uttered to the fortunate few in attendance...

My fellow guests, both welcome and otherwise...

I know it’s not customary for the father of the bride to speechify at his or her daughter’s wedding reception, but since Laura is called the First Lady, I think it’s only befitting that as your president, I should be referred to as the Best Man. Hencely, I will assume all unshirkable duties that accompany the role of Best Manliness.

First, I would like to thank you all for traveling hundreds of miles out of your way to get to this godforsaken hell hole in the middle of nowhere. It probably cost you an arm and three legs for gasoline, but despite the protestifications of Laura and myself, Jenna insisted on having the nupticles here in Crawford. I supported her fully by telling her, "What the hell. It’s your wedding."

I also hope you had the chance to marble at the huge limestone cross we made for the occasion. I know there’s a serious lime shortage in this country, but I figured your daughter only gets married at least once, so what’s a few citrus fruits in the big spleen of things?

When I was first informed that it’s the responsibility of the best man to make a toast, I thought it was silly, since the wedding is in late afternoon and everybody would have already eaten breakfast. But when I was told what a toast meant, it started to make sense.

So now I raise my glass of this expensive Don Periwinkle champagne–wait a minute, this is a formal occasion, so I should call it Donald Periwinkle–to my daughter Jenna and her new husband.

Jenna, I can still remember when you were a little tikelet bouncing on my knee. I want to take this opportunity to publicly apologize for the time I bounced a little too hard and sent you capitulating through the plate glass window. Thank God a paramour lived next door and was able to stop the protusive bleeding.

I watched you grow from a tiny sapling to a full-blown weed in what seemed like only 18 years. I used to think you looked just like your twin sister Barbara, but as Laura often has to remind me, the two of you don’t look alike because you’re not paternal twins. Neverthemore, I love you as if you were my own flesh and guts.

And to your new husband, Henry Hager, I’d like to welcome you to the family with open drawers. You are a bright young fellow, working on your MBA. Correct me if I’m incorrect, but I think that stands for Marry Bush’s Assets.

Henry, now that you and Jenna have tied the knob, you may want to take part in post-marital relations, or as we say here in Texas, "get it out." I give you my full blessing, with one small caviar. If you lay even one finger on my little girl, I will send Dick Cheney to hunt you down like a wild animal. And trust me, he knows how to accidentally shoot someone and make it look purposeful. Plus, as Laura would tell you, that s-e-x-x thing isn’t all it’s cracked down to be.

So let’s all drink deeply to Jenna and Henry. All except for me–I don’t touch the stuff anymore since it might make me misconscrew my words.

And now, it’s time to hit the dance floor. I can’t wait to get jiggly with it. God bless you, and may God bless America.