And it is my sworn duty to crush it under the jackboot of experience! As I've mentioned on GT before, I got married a year and a half ago to my lovely maybe sort of ex-wife. Given our wedding story, we should have seen it coming. It all started with a long weekend off from my crap job as a barista. We were planning on visiting my parents, but had been discussing maybe also getting married. Or breaking up. Really one or the other.

You might think that waiting periods on marriage certificates are the sign of an evil socialist nanny state that just wants to regulate you to death, but I'm here to sing their praises. During a particularly vicious argument, SheTalorast came at me with, "Let's just get fucking married then!" to which I cleverly shot back, "Fine!" See, that might have been the end of it and the next day cooler heads could prevail, but my parents lived in North Carolina at the time, and they have no wait on marriage licenses.

So we drove down after getting her a white dress and picking up some decent rings (total cost: <$95) and met up with my parents. The garment bag may have tipped my dad off, but he managed to stay pretty level headed when I told him I needed to go into Raleigh for the license. It took about 20 minutes to get. The lady and I were giddy. That's when everything sort of ground to a halt. The only place open to marry us the next day was the state correctional facility.

Now, if you ever hear your significant other happily say, "Awesome! What's the address?" as a follow up to, "We can only marry you in a jail," you run. Run far. Run fast. I know this because we learn more from our mistakes than our successes.

So the next day, we pull up in front of the jail. The guards seemed pleasantly surprised to see folks in nice clothes, you know, unescorted, though one of them shook his head and said, "Really, kid? This is a jail," and another made the obligatory life sentence joke. The only female guard in the gaggle quietly apologized for the officiant, saying we'd understand why when we met him. So it was we went through the metal detectors and down the escalator into the open lobby.

The officiant was an elderly gentleman in a three piece green plaid flannel suit with an immaculate beard, chomping on a hand-rolled stogie. He looked like a saloon proprietor from the old west. He seemed grumpy, but then he was marrying a couple through a giant sheet of what had to be bulletproof glass, so I can't really blame him.

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The ceremony itself was short and to the point, my parents served as witnesses, and many pictures were taken. After all the hugging and congratulating was done, we left the tiny room where the officiant was and were congratulated by a man in handcuffs waiting for inprocessing. That's right. The first person other than my parents to congratulate us was inprocessing a jail.

That, my friends, is how you do a terrible wedding on the cheap. We went to a park afterward and got some lovely wedding photos, saw Trans-Siberian Orchestra (this being 01DEC), and ate a wonderful meal. All great stuff, sure. All pretty easily forgettable in light of the ceremony itself, on which note, if anyone needs wedding advice, I'm always here for you guys.