I'm Having More Fun Than You

by Karo, Aaron

  As with kicking game, however, texting always has the potential for miscommunication. One of my first friends to get engaged was my frat buddy Joey. We were trading text messages while he was out boozing in Miami, and then I didn’t hear from him for a few hours. When he finally messaged back, he wrote: “i’m engaged!” I responded: “lol! how drunk r u???” Turns out he wasn’t kidding.

  Spreading the word via text is a slippery slope. When Triplet #1 proposed, he sent even his closest friends a mass text that simply read: “yo soy engaged.” Very classy. Then there’s the case of one of my fans in Boston who opted to inform his buddies he was getting engaged as part of a trade request on their fantasy football message board. The guys approved of his marriage proposal but rejected the trade.

  THE RUSH

  In 2003, I emceed a speed-dating event at a bar in Manhattan. (I’m still not sure if this was sadder for me or the participants.) Much later, I found out that two people who went to the event because they were fans of my column met each other there and got married less than two years later. Besides feeling dirty for enabling this union (though the pay was pretty good), I couldn’t help but wonder, what’s the rush? How do you go from just meeting someone to walking down the aisle in twenty-two months? I’ve never even dated someone that long.

  Of course, not everyone is in such a rush. Most people have that one friend who’s been dating a chick for like eight years but refuses to even discuss the possibility of marriage. I love provoking these guys because they always overreact. I’ll say, “So, hear about Joey? I guess you’re next, huh?” And he responds, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, not even close! I’m not even thinking of considering even maybe getting engaged! Possibly a few years from now. I want to take it slow. Very slow. Really, really slow. Like unnecessarily, painfully protracted, drawn-out slow—that’s the kind of slow I’m looking for.”

  But as much as I like prodding my hesitant friend about when he’s going to propose, I love hanging out with his girlfriend even more, especially if she’s the only one among the couples we’re with who’s not engaged or married. I always feel a sense of camaraderie with her. She’ll ask, “What’s new, Karo?” And I’m like, “Not much. You?” And, surrounded by others’ wedding bling, she sighs, “Nothing.” And then we both get drunk, secure in the knowledge that neither of us is getting hitched any time soon.

  In the end, though, I believe marriage is the great equalizer. You have to understand, ladies, our entire lives since puberty have been predicated on waiting for you. Guys are always ready to hook up, but we don’t get any unless one of you decides “the time is right.” But when a guy is thinking about proposing, that’s the first, last, and only time he holds all the cards. My, my, my, how the tables have turned. If I had a girlfriend I was thinking about proposing to, I would relish it for as long as possible. I’d buy a ring and then wear it on my cock. And then get a tattoo that read: “Ain’t payback a bitch?”

  * * *

  GLOSSARY

  OBSESSED-WITH-GETTING-MARRIED CHICK

  We all know an OWGM chick; she’s got the ring picked out and the venue booked. If you moved in with your boyfriend less than six months after you started dating, sorry, but it wasn’t “just more convenient,” it was because you’re trying to fast-track the relationship. I pity OWGM chicks (and the guys they emasculate) for missing out on the joys of single life. And I have some advice. To me, finding your keys, hooking up, and getting engaged are similar: they all happen when you’re not thinking about it and least expect it.

  * * *

  At the beginning of 2007, Brian and I made a wager. We created a spreadsheet in which we guessed when each of our four friends then in serious relationships would get engaged during the year. Whoever was more accurate would be taken out to dinner by the other. If wagering on the romantic relationships of our friends seems absurd, perhaps even offensive, then I’m willing to bet you’re in a relationship yourself, or you’re my mom. The fact is, those of us not in the race because we’re not getting married soon (me) or because we’ve already been eliminated (Brian) really have no moral qualms about it. And if you’re gonna be in such a rush to propose, the least you could do is time the most important decision of your life around the indiscriminate date I’ve chosen for you.

  THE INVITATION

  I always know that wedding season is right around the corner when people begin asking for my mailing address. That can only mean that invitations are on the way. For the past five years, besides wedding invitations, the only use anyone has had for my physical address has been the occasional pre-game at my apartment. Of course, sending my address out then didn’t prevent the twenty drunken phone calls from friends that night asking, “Yo Karo, where the fuck do you live again?”

  My frat buddy Jay sent out wedding invitations that actually had a typo. He and his fianceé had to send corrections with the right date. I wasn’t able to attend but I saved the invite just in case it’s worth something one day—like a baseball error card. Still, that didn’t compare to when I got my college girlfriend’s wedding invitation in the mail a few years ago. She was getting married to another guy from my fraternity. I knew she was engaged, of course, but seeing the actual invitation kind of freaked me out. I mean, that could’ve been me. And there’s no way I would have picked such nice calligraphy.

  * * *

  GLOSSARY

  NEAR-MARRIAGE EXPERIENCE

  This is the sensation I felt when I found out my college girlfriend was marrying the guy she dated immediately after me. It was like my single life flashed before my eyes. All those random blow jobs that never would have happened. It was terrifying.

  * * *

  When Brian was getting married, he suggested to Blake that they put an email address on their wedding invitations in order to save money by not using reply cards. The idea was met by quiet sobbing and quickly quashed. I don’t know why guys even try to participate in the wedding planning process. Of all the “Save the Date” notices on my refrigerator, my favorites are the ones that feature a picture of the happy couple, because I like to imagine what the conversation was like that led them to include that photo on the card. I usually envision the girl looking lovingly into her fiancé’s eyes and saying, “Honey, we’re gonna take a picture in which I look beautiful and you look awkward, send it to everyone we know, and you have absolutely no say in the matter.”

  The four most important components of the wedding planning process are: when to hold the event, where, how many people to invite, and who. Let’s get one thing out of the way right off the bat: unless you’re only inviting like fifty people, if you have your wedding out of the country or on New Year’s Eve, you’re an asshole. Plain and simple. Who to invite is a touchier subject. I love when people complain to me that a friend hasn’t invited them with a “plus one.” I believe the correct terminology is “guest.” You’re not on the list at a fucking nightclub.

  If you were born in the summer, like me, you’ve probably already prepared yourself for a lifetime of disappointment. No cupcakes in elementary school. No parties in your honor in college. And now, even the best-laid birthday plans are constantly disrupted by a never-ending string of engagement parties and weddings. Honestly, all I want for my birthday this year is to have been born in March.

  THE REGISTRY

  The wedding registry combines one of my favorite things—online shopping—with one of my least favorite things—buying overpriced gifts for people making poor decisions. I almost always buy alcohol-related items (or “barware,” as those fancy fucks at Williams-Sonoma call it). The way I figure it, that’s the only way I’ll be able to partake in my friends’ usage of the gift. Of course, I’ve never actually drunk anything from a flute or carafe. But I figure as long as there’s an opening at one end, the beer will know where to go.

  * * *

  ETYMOLOGY

  A little-known fact is that the term “adding insult to injury” was actually coined to describe the act of buying something off
the registry for one of your friends, only to be added to that store’s mailing list and receive unwanted catalogs for the rest of your life.

  * * *

  To some, the wedding registry is merely an opportunity to say, “I like you guys this-many-napkin-rings much.” I, for one, still get insulted when I buy something from an online registry, but the address where the gift is headed is blocked out for “privacy concerns.” Listen, if I’m giving you something called “stemware,” I want to know exactly what apartment it will never be used in.

  Oftentimes I’ll give the couple a gift but get a thank you card written only by the wife, whom I’m barely friends with. And it’s always written in really neat, girly handwriting that barely conceals the fact that she fucking hates me. It will usually imply something along the lines of: “Dear Karo, Thank you for being a part of our wedding and not vomiting until after the ceremony. We really appreciate the shotglasses as well as three of the four napkin rings we registered for. Also, thank you for organizing the bachelor party for Ted. By the way, he admitted you paid for him to get a hand job from a stripper, and I’ve forgiven him. Just wanted to let you know that when we have kids, you’re not allowed anywhere near them.”

  FOOLS OF ENGAGEMENT

  Once I received a voicemail asking me to call the local courthouse and confirm my appointment for a marriage license. Given the fact that when I listened to said voicemail, I was in bed next to a girl whose last name I did not know, I was pretty sure it was a wrong number. Being the Good Samaritan that I am, though, I called up and explained the mistake. Consequently, somewhere out there is a couple whom I assisted, albeit indirectly, in getting married without complication. There are days when I regret my decision to help out, for one simple reason: engaged people during the run-up to their wedding are some of the most insufferable humans on earth.

  Guys, if you’re engaged and sitting around with a bunch of single dudes swapping hook-up stories, don’t chime in like, “I had the best sex last week.” I don’t care if you banged her in the ass on one of those swings they advertise in the back of Maxim-no one wants to hear about you fucking your fiancée.

  Engaged women, on the other hand, are always running around chirping, “Oh my God, everyone is so excited for the wedding!” Sorry, but that’s just not true. Not everyone is excited for your wedding. I mean, your alcoholic uncle is excited for the open bar. But the chicks from your sorority who don’t even really like you aren’t excited. The people who have to spend five hundred dollars for a plane ticket to fly in from out of town—only to stay in the hotel where you’ve arranged for “special rates” so outrageous I can’t imagine what the regular rates are—certainly aren’t excited.

  * * *

  OBSERVATION

  What is with the engaged couple always asking if I’ve booked the hotel they reserved for their “destination” (read: inconvenient/ expensive) wedding? No, I haven’t booked the fucking hotel. I’m pretty sure those “special rates” aren’t going away, as you claim. Plus, there’s another reason I haven’t booked a room yet. I’m planning on banging one of the bridesmaids in her room. See? Problem solved.

  * * *

  My main problem with traveling to weddings is that I treat it like a vacation. So my first night in town—be it at the rehearsal dinner or not—I get so blindingly drunk that I’m inevitably hungover for the ceremony itself. In fact, to this day I am wrongly blamed for getting so smashed at Triplet #3’s wedding that I vomited in the parking lot during the reception. Fact: I hadn’t even been drinking that much and was merely still ill from the night before, thank you very much.

  It amuses me to no end that, when planning a wedding, the bride and groom pay so much attention to details that no one else even notices. Christina’s wedding was on Block Island, which is an island between Rhode Island and Long Island, just off the coast of Bumblefuck. A few weeks beforehand, she called to ask me what ferry I’d be taking to get there. “Ferry?” I asked. “What ferry?” “The ferry to the island!” she exclaimed. “You know, it was on page four of the Save the Date booklet we painstakingly crafted for your benefit?” “Ohhhh,” I said. “That thing. Yeah, I was using it as a coaster.”

  A few months before her wedding, my friend Marcia flew out to LA to hang out with me for a long weekend. To be clear, Marcia and I have never and—now that she’s married—will never hook up. (Though she was my prom date, I must admit I couldn’t seal the deal.) I have to confess, though, I did feel kind of strange about spending an entire drunken weekend with her. Like being engaged was some sort of contagious disease that I could catch. I had to remind myself that marriage isn’t cooties.

  ALWAYS A GROOMSMAN, NEVER THE GROOM

  When Brian asked me to be his Best Man, I was both honored to serve and thrilled to have ammunition to use against him for the next year. When we started to argue over something like who had the better SAT II scores or who could run the forty-yard dash faster in eighth grade, I’d always interrupt and say, “Wait, wait…what kind of man am I? What kind of man? That’s right, the Best Man. You said it yourself: the Best!” I started to wonder if one could get fired from the wedding party.

  * * *

  ADVICE

  I’m sick of hearing bridesmaids endlessly bitch and moan about their dresses. Just think of it like Halloween—you’re gonna dress up in something ridiculous, everyone will take pictures, and even if you look halfway decent, the only chance you’ll wear that outfit again is at a party where no one saw you in it the first time.

  * * *

  My primary duty as Best Man was to organize the bachelor party. And organize I did, sending thirteen warriors to Las Vegas for a weekend they would never remember. The real pain in the ass was not so much the planning, but rather laying out money for everyone and then trying to get them to pay me back. It’s not that my boys are cheap. It’s that they’re lazy and they’re dicks. I had to call one guy every day for six weeks, and received a check from another buddy who for some reason found it necessary to write in the memo section the words “I hate you.”

  Triplet #1 recently got married…to another triplet. I know the odds are astronomical, but of all the chicks in New York City, he managed to find one from a set of female triplets. All six of the siblings are fraternal, so there was no risk of confusion. But Best Men and Maids of Honor were tagging in and out of that ceremony like some sort of black-tie WrestleMania.

  SPEECH!

  As a comedian, giving speeches is my favorite part of any rehearsal dinner or wedding. I prepare for them like I’m preparing for an actual gig, though it took me a while to realize that brevity is appreciated. Case in point: my never-ending, seventeen-minute Best Man “toast” at Brian’s wedding. While it was relatively well received, the entire speech had to be included on the couple’s 45-minute wedding video, since they hadn’t contracted for such complex editing. Needless to say, no one wants me to take up 38 percent of their most treasured memories.

  I guess I felt I could do no worse than Brian had done himself, when he served as the Best Man at one of his fraternity brother’s weddings the year prior. Standing next to the groom and his, ahem, well-endowed wife, Brian closed his speech by accidentally congratulating his friend for choosing “the breast bride possible.” Brian called me frantically from the bathroom of the reception hall right after the toast to tell me what happened. I calmed him down, but quite frankly I was thrilled to have been given a Get-Out-of-One-Inappropriate-Gaffe-Free Card for my own upcoming speech.

  Little did I know that Brian’s wedding would not be when I needed dispensation most. When Christina—whom I’ve known even longer than Brian—got married a few days after him, she held a clambake in lieu of a traditional rehearsal dinner. Oysters and lobsters as far as the eye could see. Unfortunately, I’m allergic to shellfish. After a dozen glasses of champagne on an empty stomach, Chris surprised me by asking me to make a toast. I grabbed the mic, started riffing on my dear friend, and about halfway through accidentally dropped an F-b
omb on the crowd. Apparently, wedding speeches are not supposed to make babies cry and guests walk out.

  But despite my personal string of snafus, I still believe that bridesmaids should never be allowed to make speeches. Honestly, they’re never good. I’ll even go so far as to say that, in my entire life, no girl has ever told me a story of any kind that was interesting or funny at all. Seriously, guys, if you and your girlfriend both witness an event, you tell me what happened.

  And when bridesmaids give speeches, they always read directly from a folded-up printout of exactly what they’re gonna say, like a fucking sixth-grade book report. What are you doing? Outline and memorize! I think the only way that girls should be allowed to gives speeches at weddings is if they tell the true story of how the bride and groom actually met. Typically, the story goes that Rachel was at a bar, she accidentally spilled a drink on Shawn, he got her number, their first date was in the park, and the rest is history. Bullshit. Here’s what most likely actually happened: Rachel and Shawn met at a bar. She spilled a drink on him because she was wasted out of her mind. Shawn took her home but Rachel wouldn’t fuck him—which is pretty much the only reason why Shawn texted her the next weekend at 2 a.m. Rachel finally put out…and the rest is history.