The Devil Ain't No (Facebook) Friend Of Mine

Does anybody else think that Bridal Showers are the less preferable alternative to a fiery eternity in the depths of hell? Because I swear to god, when I sat through a bridal shower this weekend, I totally would have sold my soul to Satan himself if I could have jus t gotten up and walked out of that thing.

And if I could have punched the Bride-to-Be in the face on the way out? Not only would I have sold my soul to the Devil, I would have gift-wrapped that beeyatch in a basket with some overly-priced chocolates and a smoked salmon.

But I guess that’s another story for another day, involving an honest, hard-working man and a woman who is, literally, ruining his life (but maybe I’ve said too much)

In fact, I distinctly remember a point during the shower when I squeezed my eyes shut and conjured up Beelzebub and said, “Now’s your chance, big boy. Take it or leave it.”
And then I felt this draft of air behind my right shoulder and I was SO CONVINCED that he had taken me up on the offer.

But instead of the Devil, it was the creepy maid of honor. She caught me with my legs crossed, and according to the game, that means she gets to “steal” my gift.

Damn, I really could have used that crappy hand lotion.

You see, for those of you who are not aware, at a Bridal Shower you are forced to play games.

Horribly stupid games like, “if you get caught with your arms or legs crossed, the person who catches you gets your gift.”

At this particular shower, this game was followed by “guess how much toilet paper it takes to wrap around the bride.” Which was trailed by “I’m going to call out an item, and the first person who digs this item out from their purse and gets it to me wins.”

Me? I didn’t play the games.

I sat in the back and drank mimosas and attempted to make a pact with the Devil to trade my soul for freedom and possibly an opportunity to physically assault on the guest of honor.

And when they handed me a card to write advice for the Bride-to-be, it was all I could do not to write, “Don’t throw any more stupid bridal showers, or I will cut you, bitch.”

Of course I didn’t. I wrote something along the lines of “treat your husband how you want to be treated” in a thickly veiled attempt to accuse her of taking advantage of him.

Because if have to play nice, I should at least be able to throw in some coded messages, right?

Thankfully, I had come with the baby.
Not my baby – the baby of my friend, who thankfully was invited too or I might have stabbed myself in the eye with a salad fork.
And when the baby needs a nap, you HAVE to leave, right?
And if they’re my ride, then I have to leave too.

What a shame

So I managed to leave just as she was settling in to open the 43095433492094387 gifts that she had received for doing nothing other than forcing a good man to support her fat, lazy ass for the rest of her life.

Wow, congrats on being a piece of shit. Here’s a toaster.

So that was my Saturday.
Being surrounded by adult women playing childish games and oohing and aahing over the crappy Bride and not once – not ONCE – did the Devil show up to bail me out.

Wow, I knew he was mean and all, but that’s just CRUEL man.

Dear Satan,
Good job dropping the ball on that one.
Don’t bother leaving me a Facebook message – I already deleted you as a friend. And I blocked you phone number too.
So the next time you need help harvesting your tomatoes on Farmville, find someone else to do it.

Yeah, that’ll show him.

How you like THEM (rotten Farmville) apples?!?