Wedding bells and bicep curls

Upon realizing that his current strategy (shooting numerous women with arrows, so that they could get bamboozled into thinking that they are in love with me) isn’t quite working the way the manual paints it, Cupid decides to attack me with a more potent weapon, peer pressure. I’m not exaggerating when I say almost everyone in my circle decided that 2010 will be the year they commit social suicide they tie the knot.

Provided that my sick sense of humour hasn’t offended more people, I might get invited to about ten weddings this year. I’m not really a fan of weddings, I find romance nauseating and the lump of coal I have for a heart isn’t strong enough to endure several hours of cheesy romance. Don’t get me wrong, I’m ecstatic that the people close to me have found love while the rest of us cynical clowns are still avoiding calls from stalkers three months after it ceased being flattering.

Enough of my bitching, two of my best friends (Part of our legendary booze loving crew, pictured above) are getting married this November and they’ve asked me to be their grooms-man or whatever, I’m honoured that they chose me, excited at the thought of being part of the happiest day of their lives but, being part of a crew that likes making everything and everybody, I don’t wanna give them the satisfaction of cracking jokes at my ever expanding waistline. I’m gonna attempt my umpteenth exercise regime, wedding attire is unflattering to pot bellied folk and I’m hoping to be less of a pot-bellied stud by then.