Big Daddy Paul

Weddings are fun events where you get together with your friends and celebrate the fact that someone else will soon start arguing over who has to put away the laundry. We just got back from a super-fun wedding and I thought I would help you all out by giving you some practical guidelines to help maximize the entertainment value.

DO show up for the ceremony. I know it is tempting to just go to the reception site early and starting drinking all the free booze, but occasionally something bizarre happens at the ceremony, and, when it does, you surely don’t want to miss it. At Saturday’s wedding the priest asked the bride and groom if they had a ferret. Yes, a ferret. This was right after “Love is patient, love is blind…” and right before “I will love and honor you all the days of my life.” Totally random! The only way to appreciate the awkwardness of this moment was to sit through it, and that is why you always go to the ceremony. DO NOT go to the ceremony and confuse the sacraments with free booze. Trust me, you should not be asking for seconds at the head of the communion line.

DO have a few drinks at the cocktail reception. Drinking alcohol at this time is socially acceptable and will help you deal with the people staring at your tits (I am especially self-conscious about mine, and it is so much easier for me to shout, “Eyes up here, buddy!!!” with a drink in my hand.) DO NOT do shots at the cocktail reception. I repeat, DO NOT do shots at the cocktail reception. You may have a shot later in the evening if you suck at dancing and want to get better at it. You may also have a shot later if the stranger you have been randomly making out with has breath reminiscent of a sea otter. Both of those loopholes occur much later in the evening, though. If you do shots at the cocktail reception, you will most likely be the be the guy mistaking the groom for a waiter. Don’t be that guy.

No dirty dancing here!

DO have a fun time dancing. It doesn’t matter if you are any good at it (I’m awful) as long as you bring enthusiasm and keep your elbows down. DO NOT dirty dance with the bride. For that matter, DO NOT dirty dance with any parents of the bride. In fact, let’s just say, DO NOT dirty dance. When you dirty dance, you are really just telling the world how sad and lonely you are. I guess I should also say, DO NOT break dance, dolphin dance or humpty dance. Nothing good will come of it. By all means, if “Total Eclipse of the Heart” comes on, DO NOT stay on the dance floor. I learned this one the hard way, and wound up at the bottom of a huge dog pile with beer and dirt all over my suit. That song just packs to much raw emotion and should be avoided at all costs. When you hear Bonnie Tyler say, “Turn around,” DO so, and run for your life!

DO thank the hosts of the wedding, telling them how lovely the event was. DO NOT nod at them on your way out the door, holding every unopened bottle of alcohol that you can manage to get your hands on and singing “God Bless America” at the top of your lungs. That is tacky, and I shouldn’t have done that. DO make an exit. DO NOT make a stupid one.

DO attend a post wedding brunch, if you are so invited. It’s a good way to wrap up the weekend and tell silly stories about what happened the night before. DO NOT stalk the married couple, banging loudly on their door early in the morning and yelling, “WHERE THE DONUTS AT?”

That’s about it, I have to find a dry cleaner and some donuts now…

I am a simple man. Oh sure, I can put on airs and extol the virtues of foie gras or a properly executed bordelaise, but that’s not really me. Truth be told, if the police ever stumbled upon the pile of cadavers I’ve got locked away in our crawlspace and I had to choose one last meal, it would be a taco. Not any old taco, mind you. The taco of which I speak is special, holding an almost magical quality over me for the last 20 years. No, the taco befitting my last meal would be a Dave’s taco.

I find this picture oddly arousing

A dave’s taco is simple: tortilla, meat, sauce. I could bore you with details about the grilled tortilla, or the oyster sauce marinated tri-tip, but honestly you could get that anywhere. The thing that separates a Dave’s taco from the rest of the taco world is the sauce. The sauce is good. Really fucking good. Smack yo momma good. Rich, orange and spicier than a baboon’s ass on the Fourth of July, the sauce elevates the taco into a symphony of heat and flavor. I don’t usually eat garbage, but when I see all the plates thrown out at Dave’s garbage can, I actually consider diving in there and licking plates clean. I’d tell you what’s in the sauce to make it so special, but I have no idea. Dave won’t tell me, and I am not sure biochemists could break down all the ingredients involved.

So every time I am in Bakersfield, I treat myself to a taco orgy, consuming at least eight at each sitting. Dave still knows my name, despite the fact that I once went 10 years without eating there. And when I am done with my bender, my face and fingers still dripping with sauce, I wonder, “When will I be able to eat here again?”

I started thinking the other day about the things I would do if it meant I got to eat at Dave’s. For your enjoyment, here is what I came up with:

I would become one of those deodorant testers who stick their nose in other people’s armpits.

I would wear the Hot Dog On A Stick uniform in public.

I would go to Bakersfield, even in summer!

For a gallon of the sauce, I would watch a movie narrated by Bjork while eating popcorn seasoned with salmon salt.

If Dave opened up a delivery service, I would wear crotchless chaps in a mosquito breeding tent.

For a “Tacos of the Week” basket, I would use a Q-Tip laced with whale diarrhea.

If you gave me the recipe for Dave’s sauce, I would wash your back. If you made it for me, I would wash your front. (Thanks Fletch, for that one!)

Lastly, if you could somehow convince Dave to move into our guest bedroom (without a weapon and a few lengths of rope, which turned out to be not such a good idea) I would do it all, on national TV, on Superbowl Sunday. Naked. They are that good.

Speaking of tacos, it’s lunchtime here, and I gotta start moseying…

I have issues. I know this and most of you know this. For some reason, there are still people on this planet who think it is a good idea to let me watch their kid at a wedding. Not a good idea. Jeannie and Anne, thanks for inviting us to your totally fun wedding and post-wedding brunch. Kristi and Conrad (parents of the newborn shown in the following montage,) you need to pay more attention to who looks after your child.

At first I thought it would be funny if I just made it look like their daughter was missing her parents, and then I realized I could do so much more with a little creativity.

I got a few takers, but no one had any cash on them, so I continued. The wine was flowing pretty well at this point, and I hit my stride.

This had the unforeseen consequence of actually waking the baby (sheer genius usually does.) In a moment of desparation, I fell back upon the best parenting tip I ever came across.

Yep, I fed the baby some wine. It’s a little trick I picked up from Britney Spears. Did it work? You be the judge:

Like a charm! That baby couldn’t hold its liquor though, and soon she passed out, unable to express just how hungry she was. Little Bayly needn’t worry though, for I had her back:

Luckily, the parents soon returned and rescued cute little Bayly from the evil clutches of the sweaty fat man. This scenario is doomed to repeat itself until the word gets out that Big Daddy Paul is NOT the name of someone you want looking after your child. Miraculously, Amy still does, even after this picture was taken:

Not all pictures of parents with their kids turn out well. Need proof? Read on!

Fa La La La La WAAAAAAAAAH!

One of the people in this picture just farted. (I'll give you a hint, it wasn't my mom.)

W-W-W-W-Water t-t-t-t-toooo c-c-c-c-cold!!!

If this meathead wasn't groping me inappropriately, I would totally get down and jettison out of this thing.

OK, I am gonna take your picture on 3. One, two, click.

At some point, we thought this was a good idea. It may have been, but taking a picture of it? Not so much.

Someone get me away from this sweaty fat man!

I don't care about the fucking Buckingham Palace, daddy. I want to go home!

OK, today we are going to learn how to use the abacus. Step one: take off all your clothes.

I will not give you a good "Father-Son" picture on your birthday. I won't! I won't! I won't!

Paul, I am beginning to think that sledding down the Great Wall of China isn't such a good idea.

Hey, creepy guy. I swear, if you make me hold up this sign for one more photo...

Me: Isn't Versailles fabulous? We're having such a wonderful time! Malcolm: put down your arms, nimrod. You're embarrassing yourself.

OK, not technically a family picture, but still. Stop! No, keep going. Stop! Wait, do it again. Stop!

Luckily, they don’t all turn out weird.