You Are Cordially Insulted...

Every one of you are cordially invited to attend the wedding of Rockwell T. Finger and Rutherford Ginger Baker this Sunday, at the Flatbush Mall of 'Merica. Invited, of course, as long as you actually receive one of those little cardboard notes saying you can come. They all should be in the mail by now, according to Ginger. They are handwritten, so we can save all the money for the honeymoon in Haiti. We are going there to save money for buying something we really want, like solid gold dollar-sign rims for our automobile.

If you haven't received an invitation, it probably means you're shit out of luck. We'll be sending out the shit-out-of-luck cards tomorrow, to verify to everyone. There are a lot of those. But fewer guests mean more catered food for us and our eight or nine close friends we invited.

Unfortunately, someone—I think that no-goodnik Omar Bricks, or probably one of those other many, many no-goodniks who work here, posted our wedding invitation on the commune bulletin board. Ginger doesn't believe many of them will come to the wedding anyway, since I'm generally hated here at the office, but we're serving fried baloney and hosting square dancing (with a real caller!) so you can imagine I'm fearing a rush of uninvited guests. Damn, I didn't want to have the squad dancing caller! Like putting an open bar at a wedding. But an old friend of mine from the Russian mob was available, so we decided to ask him.

It occurs to me only now I probably shouldn't have contacted the Russian mob again at all, given they have tried to kill me in the past for turning state's evidence against them. Let alone invited them to the wedding. I was so excited I didn't think clearly when I made up my list. Oh, well. Hopefully they'll be the sentimental sort and let our murky histories with each other slide. It's a joyous occasion, after all.

My betrothed and I have decided to write our own vows. We got off to a rocky start, but I think it's going exceptionally well now. At first, I admit, I sort of confused the vows with New Year's resolutions, promising her I would cut out chocolate and lose ten pounds by Christmas. But she corrected me, and didn't even use violence—what a woman!

So then I wrote the vows I'm using. I promise to take her in sickness and health, as long as the health outweighs the sickness by an 85% margin. I also promised to buy her a little red wagon for putting things in and dragging them from place to place; I wanted one so badly when I was a kid, and I swore then that no wife of mine would ever do without one when she was hauling groceries home from the store or doing other work-oriented wife things. I also promised her ten cents on the dollar, should we ever divorce, which I think is a pretty fair deal. You try reading that in a mall full of loved ones and see if there's a dry eye in the food court. I doubt you could find one.

Also, she doesn't know this, but I snuck a peek at her vows, too, even though she wanted to keep them secret. If you'll excuse a little bragging, I also edited them pretty cleverly. Hers went on a little too much, talking about searching all her life for a man who really understood her and would treat her like a princess, blah, blah, blah—stuff everyone's heard before, and pretty cliché. I cut a lot of that down, and I also snuck in some sexy rejoinders, just to keep the crowd from falling asleep. Like, "I also pledge to be your eternal love slave, you handsome beefstick. I vow to do the nasty nightly." Not that I want nightly nasty. The wedding's just a show for the audience anyway.

So once again, I hope to see each and everyone of you there, because I love you all like my family. That is, if you're one of the selected few who are related to me. The rest of you just ignore all that, and whatever you do, don't come to the wedding.

Abducted by Beatniks
Good people, I have had one of those experiences that only happens to other people. I have been abducted! And not by aliens, as you might first suspect, and even hope. I was abducted by beatniks! It starts like any other story of abduction. I... (5/30/05)

Marry All the Way
Surprise, I got my name back. Occasionally I jump the gun and make a situation look a lot bleaker than it is. But I did seriously think Felchyana would take away my very name. As for my new name, "Rokwell T. Stonewall" is already owned by a... (5/16/05)

The Good Name of Rok ???
The good news: I've finally nailed down terms of my divorce from my soon-to-be ex-wife, Felchyana. The bad news: We elected a war-hungry idiot for president, not once, but twice. But I suppose that bit of news is hardly news, and certainly... (5/2/05)

Satellite Killed the Radio Stars
You may have read about my A.M. radio station and the hostile buyout Clear Channel is attempting. But of course I have other problems to worry about, so that's just the pus-filled boil on the sore foot. Which is a nasty version of the "icing on the... (4/18/05)