Rendered Speechless

When exactly do the beer guzzling hooligans you used to hang around with become semi-respectable people? It seems only yesterday that these very same people were spending days on end on your couch eating four-day old pizza and blasting out farts that did in fact register on the Richter scale and triggered car alarms in a two-hundred metre radius, they would be arrested from time-to-time for beating up guys in chicken suits, and they'd be calling you at three in the morning to ask you a favour involving driving to a swamp so you can bury a bullet-riddled corpse.

Now they have haircuts that are nudging on the almost respectable, they emit odours that suggest they eat vegetables rather than the way-past-expiry-date meat that contained a tribe of surprised maggots and they stop getting fired as frequently. In short, the very same kind of person that not two years ago you would have to help bury in a swamp at 3 am because of some argument they had at the footy.

What I'm trying to say is that more of my friends are getting married. That's the good news. The bad news is that I fear the 'choice candidates' of best men may force certain individuals to take a cold, hard look at their friendship base. Take Clark for example.

Against the advice of his wife-to-be Hayley, his family, his friends ( excluding yours truly) that crazy guy at the bus station and even little unborn Yevgeny Danger Randerson he has decided that the guy best suited to mouth off at the wedding should be Matt. This is because Matt has the most experience in giving a speech (he once decided that it would be cheaper to represent himself at the Magistrate's Court. He got a two year suspended sentence) and has the best drinking stories.

Will there be a brawl at the wedding? The smart money says yes. But what's a wedding without a few tears?

Fatman