So i endured my dad's wedding. The wedding itself was mercifully brief, no more than ten minutes long (if that), and very sweet. My dad looked good, the bride looked sweet and they both looked very happy. I remember thinking "gee, maybe this won't be so bad after all".
Then the reception. The bride's family were straight from the trailer park. We're talking people with bad teeth, eight-inch bangs and bad perms, long, nasal vowel sounds (if one more said "you have a charming accent!" i was going to snap) and general stupidity. They were really excessively tacky people- one girl was wearing a tight white lace top and tight white capri pants. Now, white capri pants are kind of a fashion nightmare to begin with, but you simply don't wear white lace to someone else's wedding... and to wear white lace to someone else's wedding paired with white capri pants just makes my brain hurt. The bride's daughter was wearing this black with white polka-dots top, cut off the shoulder (with elasticized straps, no less!) and 6 inches of hideous ruffles around the top, and tight black stretch pants. Looked like Roseanne Barr dressed up to go to a church picnic- or casual wear for Fran Drescer. I asked one of them what the last thing he read that he really enjoyed was, and he informed me that he doesn't read much, but loves American Idol. You couldn't converse with these people- after a few futile, abortive attempts, i just stuck with my brother and aunt and waited for the clock to hit 8pm... knowing we could be out of there at that point since they were to cheap to rent the hall for later. i turned to my brother at one point and told him that i was going to have to drink more or kill the DJ. The DJ was playing Johnny Cash, Kenny Rogers and some bad, slow rap which gave line-dancing instructions very slowly. "Slide to the left! Slide to the right! Now jump! Stomp two times! Turn around!" He suggested that opting for drinking more was sensible, as his experiences with jail were less than pleasant and it would likely be even less so in the USA. i agreed, and went to get another drink.
The bartender was short bus special. I asked for a rum and coke. Not my usual drink, but given a choice between various poor quality hard liquors and Labatt's Blue, i felt it was the least offensive option. He said "Rum and coke? Sure!" and poured me a glass of coke.
The conversation continued as follows.
"This rum and coke is distinctly lacking in rum."
"What?"
"There needs to be rum in this rum and coke."
"You want more rum?"
"I would like some rum in it. I currently don't have any."
"You want more rum in it?"
"Since any would be more than I have now, which is none, I would like some more, yes."
"You want more rum?"
"Yes."
"Oh."

At this point he stood there staring blankly at me. I thought I would make a suggestion.

"If you pour off a little of the coke, there will be room to pour some rum in it."
"You want rum in it?"
"Yes. Because that would make it a rum and coke, as opposed to just coke, which is what i have now. Please put some rum in it."

This is the point where he finally got the hint, and where I decided that perhaps drinking was not the answer. It couldn't be, if it was this hard to lay hands on some alcohol. I had a splitting migrane by this point, and every bass beat coming from the speakers went through my skull like a dagger, so i slunk off to sit by myself as far away from the sound system as i could manage. This apparently managed to get me labelled as a bitch by my sister, but i care little, since she labels me that at virtually every occasion we meet anyway.

Upon my return, Tadhg said "Thank God I had an excuse not to go."
I only wished I'd been able to say the same.