A very occasional occasion
Grinch Relents

This Wedding Needs More Sex

Dear Abby,

I’m about to witness a major social gaffe.  An etiquette atrocity.  A crime against the peace, order and good government provisions of the Australian Constitution .  Proof that the universe is imploding.  A herald of the Rapture. 

My number one fag hag, Miss Betty Ford, has decided to tie the knot.  That’s not the gaffe, though.  The wedding plans look exquisite.  Miss Betty always gives good wedding.

It's like this. Our dear Betty is the Angelina Jolie of fag hags.  She will adopt any nancy boy with a sob story.  If you've been orphaned by your fag hag when she got a cat/hobby/boyfriend/life, call Betty.  She'll let you cry big, manly tears on her shoulder.

I much prefer crying into her bosom, actually, since her bosom is supremely comfortable. Yours Truly is the only man, apart from her beloved, to whom she grants pillowing priveleges. 

Betty often remarked that for a gay chap, I am oddly fond of a good tit.  Then she met my mother, and recognized that two of the moons of Jupiter nursed me.  She has since supplied her chesty charity in many moments of need.

P1140863 The Wedding Dress.  *sigh*

The problem  has to do with her bachelorette party, you see.  (In Australia, they call it a hen's night.)  Thanks to a heady mix of Facebook and Renmano Sauvignon Blanc, Betty invited all her gay buddies.  Ever the generous soul, she imagined they might enjoy the...um, entertainment.

Now, Betty's Matron of Humour is the splendid Arizaphale, who's crafted a loving tribute to the bride.  She has written heartfelt toasts, assembled mementos of their shared youth, and concocted amusing parlour games which would reveal how much each guest knows about Betty's past.  She thought up several witty puns about hens. But it soon became apparent that she had arranged no...um, entertainment.

Oh my god.  Oh. My. God.  Oh! My! God!  

When confronted with her faux pas, Arizaphale pleaded ennui.  "We good ole girls aren't exactly spring chickens," she wrote, warming to the hen's night theme.  "We've seen enough cock to last us a lifetime, and therefore are less than impressed with it anymore."

I can make neither head nor tail of that sentence.  Surely, the phrase "enough cock" is logically impossible. 

The question is, Abby, should we gay boys take matters into our own hands? (And if we're lucky, mouths?) 

Is it best to be subtle?  Perhaps a hired hunk might stroll past and casually drop trou, maintaining it was a coincidence that he was overcome by a heat rash on his buttocks at that very moment? 

Should we damn the torpedoes and get the guy in the cop uniform to do the whole who's-been-a-naughty-girl routine, even if handcuffs cost extra? 

Or ought we do the job ourselves, arriving naked to ensure there are some ornamental genitalia on display? 

Further, the couple's beloved dog will act as ring bearer.  Technically, she's a member of the bridal party, too.  Should we rent a Great Dane or something?

P1140848_2
Anxiously awaiting your advice. The party is tonight, and the wedding approaches!

The Honourable Husband
Serial Wedding Guest

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