Some Poor Bastard Married a Ren

By, Ren

Yeah, that’s right.  Read that title again.  It’s for fucking real, baby.  I is a married chick, now.  I have joined the ranks of domestic married women, everywhere.  I am one with all the Suzy Homemakers the world over!  Yeah!  Betty Crocker and some shit.

Keeping it real in the kitchen bitches.

Or, not.

I do make a mean cottage pie, though.

Alright, we all know I’m not the poster chick for domesticity.  When other little girls were planning their fairy tale weddings, I was drawing up plans to free Northern Ireland through a complex, yet sexy series of events.  I never really gave two shits if I ever got married.  Never wanted to, never cared, didn’t need the bullshit.  Some girls go through, “this is the one” syndrome with every guy they date.  Mine was more, “this is the one for now.”  No, that’s not a polite way of saying I was a super horny sorority vixen.  Fuck, it totally is.

Although, this was my frat party outfit.

Fuck it, whatever.  Who are you to judge me?  Damn it, stop being an asshole!  Son-of-a-whore!

OK, sorry.  I’m better now.

So, I’ve been seeing this guy for a good while.  He’s manly, hot, and hung (too much info?).  It started out as a semi-regular booty call situation.  I say “semi-regular,” because it started off as a long distance relationship.  He lived/lives in central Alberta and I live on the ass-end of humanity in Western Montana.  That’s a good ten hours apart.  But, Momma has a way of becoming a life crippling addiction to men, women, and a few transsexuals.  It may not be a record, but the Canuck would drive the ten hours every time I flashed the booty call signal.

It’s one hell of an app.

The Ren addiction became overwhelming.  The hoser fell for me.  That’s not anything new.  I can’t go a day without someone writing a marriage proposal in the sky via old-timey skywriting plane.

“Again? Who is it this time?”

What I didn’t count on and never really had to deal with was the addiction going both ways.  This is some sappy shit.  I apologize for being all lovey-dubby.  It’s out of character for me, I know.  Deal with it.  I’ll go back to the normal sexist, self absorbed sex kitten you all have come to know and love with your very being.

Again, there is no shame in admitting that I am your Irish sunrise.

I figured that after my long life on this planet, I might as well settle for this dumbass.  He’s already demonstrated his complete and baffling devotion to me.  Who hasn’t?  But, as I mentioned, I sorta kiiiinda liked this guy in more than just my pants.  Yeah, it’s the L word.

Not this “L Word,” but that shit would be hot!

The OTHER L word.  Momma fell in love.  Fuck you!  Why not?  Why can’t it happen to me, too?  Judgmental prick.

After some deep soul-searching, we decided to get hitched.  The reason being.. I don’t have to justify our decision.  Doode, I’m going to come through your computer and bitch slap you.

Sorry.  I’m defensive.  I apologize to all those reading who are not fuck shits.  What’s that, like 10% of you?  You know who you are.

We planned to spend a portion of my spring break in Las Vegas for a super-dooper romantic trip.  Hey!  Vegas!  Home of the drive through wedding.  No hassle, no complications, no fuss.  Just the two of us, a couple of witnesses, and an official that may or may not be an Elvis impersonator.

“Hunka-hunka burning MATRIMONY!”

We were sold.  What’s the point in waiting?  No, there is no point.  Momma knows what she wants.  If she didn’t want it, it wouldn’t happen.  I was determined.  He was ecstatic for the privilege and honor of marrying me.

Bing, bam, boom; we had our suite at the Luxor reserved, the 20 minutes at the chapel reserved, and a whole assortment of wedding night lingerie to make him praise God for the blessing of being in my life.  No wedding dress, tux, or reception.  Simple, baby.  Expressing our love by making the ultimate commitment in the eyes of our Irish Lord, Jesus O’Nazereth.  We know full well that, being both Catholic [IRISH Catholic for me], death is the only way out after the deed is done.

Till death do us part, motherfucker.

Knowing that this was the only thing that a couple can do in Vegas that will not stay in Vegas, we figured it was a good idea to keep all of this a secret.  Why?  Well, we didn’t want to put up with a bunch of bullshit from family, friends, my army of devoted followers, etc.  I say “bullshit,” to encompass all the possible reactions one can expect when proclaiming a quickie marriage in Vegas.  That’s something you want to do after the fact.

Dropping one of these on family and friends from a safe distance is advisable.

The whole thing was set in motion.  We were giddy, knowing the big secret.  Don’t get me wrong, no one was going to start a war or disapprove vehemently of our union.  Well, one person would.  But, more on that fucker later.  I wanted to do this on our own terms.  I guess that’s some of the reason we felt drunk the entire time.  That and, well, actually being drunk.  But, at least half of that feeling was the complete control of our destinies.  We had some awesome pre-wedding ceremony sex.  I mean, awesome.  Fuck…  earth shattering super banging.  I think it was the worst kept secret in the entire hotel.

That and I wore this t-shirt, constantly.

We went to the hotel chapel, had a short run down of what was going to happen, added the cost to our hotel bill, then pulled the trigger. It was easier than getting a gun permit in California.  We were Mr and Mrs Whatsits.  That intoxicating feeling we had before our wedding just EXPLODED to the nth degree.  The Luxor comped a dinner and $100 worth of gambling chips.  That’s it.  It was awesome.  We had rings and just glowed with excitement.  Oh yeah, we fucked each other stupid in private and public places.

It’s only a crime if someone turns you in. It’s sort of hot if they just watch.

It may not have been a traditional wedding, but it was OUR wedding set at our speed.  We partied everywhere!  We took in some burlesque shows, some dirty version of Little Bo Peep with Holly Madison, a topless comedy club, some gambling, and then more things that involved women without tops.  It was a recurring theme on our trip.

Didn’t take Momma long to talk the bartender out of her restrictive top.

Before I go any further, I feel the need to debunk any unauthorized rumors floating around.  I know “Ren got married,” means different things to different people.  This is rumor control; here are the facts:

  1. I am not pregnant
  2. He is not pregnant
  3. We were NOT drunk during the ceremony
  4. This isn’t part of a Witness Protection Program deal
  5. I AM NOT PREGNANT.  Drop it.  Fuck!
Our holiday of just married bliss started to show some cracks when we figured that maybe telling our friends and families would be a good idea.  Telling them while we’re still in Las Vegas, that is.  Give the bomb time to explode, its social faux pas shrapnel embedding nice and deep in the psyches of those we hold dear.  That’s the humane thing to do.  So, I used a simple, almost elegant, social bomb to start the chain reaction.
·

·
I think that may have crashed Facebook for a few hours.  The amount of cell phone and internet traffic coming from Edmonton, Montana, Idaho, Washington, and Northern Ireland was enough to completely jam up the works, A´ la major terrorist or natural disaster.  When  you get a bunch of Irish Catholics who have been duped into not participating or attending a wedding of one of their own; it’s war.

I’m sorry, Pacific Northwest.

We enjoyed our remaining few days off the grid.  That is, until my mother informed us that she took it upon herself to book a flight from Las Vegas to Spokane, the nearest grown up airport Northern Idahoans have.  I pointed out to her that we didn’t have a car.  We planned on flying right back home and get my ride from the airport lot.  No worries.  Once we land in Spokane, there would be “a car” waiting for us.  OK, fine.  I owe my family a little leeway here.  They want to meet my new husband; their new kin.  The husband, on the other hand, smelled a set up.

He went all Admiral Ackbar on me.

The Husband, some how, must have heard stories about my family that didn’t put us in a very peaceful and understanding light.  Every family has their history.  Some were involved in bootlegging during Prohibition.  Some were involved with assembling explosives and blowing up columns of British trucks.  So maybe there are still some out there fighting for the Cause.* Of course, it may have something to do with some of my family being members of a fairly known MC in those parts.  I grew up with bikers.  That explains my charm and precociousness.

*Editor’s Note:  No one in 21st century Northern Ireland can pinpoint what “The Cause” means.  There are a dozen or so out there.  Take your pick.  Find one that feels good to you!  Don’t like it?  Trade it in for a brand new cause!

The entire flight, The Husband was preoccupied with  facing his own death a lot sooner than he hoped.  Getting our bags at Spokane, we meandered to the ground transportation area.  A large man in a black suit held a placard with our names written in flowing fashion.  OK, so maybe a scene or two from “The Transporter” popped into  my head.

“The packages are here. Sticking with Plan A. Chloroform for the male standing by.”

We got into this black town car that drove us all the way to my parents’ house.  I spent the 45 minutes assuring him that he was creating a scenario in his head that couldn’t possibly play true in real life.  [note:  I was completely fucking wrong] I was excited!  I’m a newly wed and so pumped to show off The Husband, our rings, and share all the stories.  The house was coming in sight.  I guess my smiling and giddiness was a little infectious.  The Husband, for a moment, had forgotten to be scared.  Not to worry.  That wouldn’t last.

Our car made the last bend and my parents’ home came into view!  Wow, there sure are a lot more cars in the driveway than I thought would be in the middle of a weekday…  in the middle of the week.  Well fuck me running, there’re like a dozen motorcycles hanging around the driveway, too.  Oh, it’s a welcome to the family party!  We got out of the car and made our way to the front porch to find twelve angry-looking men in MC kutten with club colors standing on the porch like it was a parade review.  Among these big, angry cowboys of the road were two of my cousins, Reece and Aodh.  I knew The Husband’s train from funtown was now heading for Ass Beating Butte.

Oh, sweetie. I wish I could. But, Da already poured the whisky.

Nothing was said.  They grabbed Husband and threw him in a van, then took off like the wind.  A wind that just kidnapped my brand new husband.  None of us would see him for a good 24 hours.  But, whatever.  My Da was grilling steak and had an open bottle of whisky for his little girl.  I’m sure The Husband was fine.

He didn’t even have the chance to put me on his life insurance policies.

Oh, come on!  Stop thinking the worst.  He didn’t die.  They just pushed him off a bridge.  Come to think of it, that is something a guy just has to go through in order to prove his worth.  It wasn’t anything too illegal.  A long time was spent berating him and pissing all over his manhood.  Figuratively.  No one was actually pissing on his dick.  That’s just fucked up.

*Note from photo research staff:  There are just some illustrations we refuse to find.

They tied his foot to a cinder block and asked him if he could fly.  Their theory was, that if Husband really loves me, he wouldn’t be afraid to take a leap of faith.  Then, without an answer, they pushed him off.  Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrgggggghhh!  Splat.

No.  There wasn’t a “splat.”  With all the commotion, Husband didn’t realize that the brothers hooked him up to a bungee dealy and not a cinder block.  He bounced back.  His jeans may have been a little more urine soaked than normal, and I am damn sure the boxers he had on had to be burned.  They returned him the next day, drunk, sweaty, and dry heaving.  Back off, ladies.  He’s MY MAN!

My broken, soot covered, vomit spewing, shell of his former self man.

That’s sort of how it went over the next several weeks.  My mother is very adamant that we have a Catholic ceremony to “strengthen our … something or other.”  Something about getting officially married in the eyes of the Church.  Now, that will be fun to coordinate.  Good luck to them figuring out how to get two families 1000 miles apart to come to a consensus on something like this.  Oh well, don’t care.  Just more alcohol and meat products for me.  I did manage to spend a good week or so with The Husband’s family in Edmonton.  As expected, they fucking love me.  I’m so charming.  Tee hee.  Even one of his older brothers was completely enamored by me.    I fucking ROCK Alberta!

It’s just so hard leaving my adoring fans.

Oh, that guy I mentioned earlier in the article that would lose his shit when he found out Husband and I got married.  It’s the middle child of the family.  He is known by many names; newfie, tool, anger-man, the tirade king…  But, we here at FWTC call him Roode.  That’s right bitches.  I married into Roode’s family.  Try to stop me now, motherfucker!  Your nightmare is now a reality!  I’m on the inside, entrenched.  There is no way to escape me.  Roode, my big brother-in-law, life as you know it has ended.  Enjoy!

Consider your world officially rocked.

Posted on June 30, 2011, in Alcohol, Family, Life Lessons, Ren and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

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